GIFT   OF 


Kindred  of  the  Dust 


By 

Peter  B.  Kyne 

Author  of 
Th»  Vdl-y  of  the,  Giants,  Cuppy  Ricks,  etc. 


@iopolifari  Book  (orporafien 


NEW  YORK 


MCMXX 


VC  °i< 


Copyright,  1920,  by 
PETER  B.  KYNK 

All  Rights  Reserved,  including  that  of  translation, 

into  foreign  languages,  including 

the   Scandinavian 


Printed  in  U.  S.  A. 


TO    IRENE 

MY   DEAR,    TYRANNICAL,    PRACTICAL   LITTLE 

FOSTER-SISTER 

WITHOUT  WHOSE  AID  AND  COMFORT,  HOOTS, 
CHEERS  AND  UNAUTHORIZED  STRIKES,  THE 
QUANTITY  AND  QUALITY  OF  MY  ALLEGED 
LITERARY  OUTPUT  WOULD  BE  APPRECIABLY 
DIMINISHED,  THIS  BOOK  IS  AFFECTIONATELY 
DEDICATED 


420268 


THE  ILLUSTRATIONS 


Hector  McKaye  was  bred  of  an  acquisitive  race 

Frontispiece 
She  stole  to  the  old  square  piano  and   sang  for 

him 122 

Donald  bowed  his  head,   "I   can't  give  her  up, 

father"     .     .     . 180 

"I'm  a  man  without  a  home  and  you've  just  got 

to  take  me  in,  Nan" ...  310 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 


T  N  the  living-room  j  of  The  Dreamerie,  his  home  on 
•*•  Tyee  Head,  Hector  McKaye,  owner  of  the  Tyee 
Lumber  Company  and  familiarly  known  as  "The 
Laird,"  was  wont  to  sit  in  his  hours  of  leisure,  smoking 
and  building  castles  in  Spain — for  his  son  Donald. 
Here  he  planned  the  acquisition  of  more  timber  and 
the  installation  of  an  electric-light  plant  to  furnish 
light,  heat,  and  power  to  his  own  town  of  Port  Agnew ; 
ever  and  anon  he  would  gaze  through  the  plate-glass 
windows  out  to  sea  and  watch  for  his  ships  to  come 
home.  Whenever  The  Laird  put  his  dreams  behind  him, 
he  always  looked  seaward.  In  the  course  of  time,  his 
home-bound  skippers,  sighting  the  white  house  on  the 
headland  and  knowing  that  The  Laird  was  apt  to  be' 
up  there  watching,  formed  the  habit  of  doing  something 
that  pleased  their  owner  mightily.  When  the  northwest 
trades  held  steady  and  true,  and  while  the  tide  was  still 
at  the  flood,  they  would  scorn  the  services  of  the  tug 
that  went  out  to  meet  them  and  come  ramping  into  the 
bight,  all  their  white  sails  set  and  the  glory  of  the  sun 
upon  them;  as  they  swept  past,  far  below  The  Laird, 
they  would  dip  his  house-flag — a  burgee,  scarlet-edged, 
with  a  fir  tree  embroidered  in  green  on  a  field  of  white 

1 


OF  THE  DUST 

— the  symbol  to  the  world  that  here  was  a  McKaye 
ship.  And  when  the  house-flag  fluttered  half-way  to 
the  deck  and  climbed  again  to  the  masthead,  the  soul 
of  Hector  McKaye  would  thrill. 

"Guid  lads !  My  bonny  brave  lads !"  he  would  mur 
mur  aloud,  with  just  a  touch  of  his  parents*  accent,  and 
press  a  button  which  discharged  an  ancient  brass  can 
non  mounted  at  the  edge  of  the  cliff.  Whenever  he  saw 
one  of  his  ships  in  the  offing — and  he  could  identify  his 
ships  as  far  as  he  could  see  them — he  ordered  the  gar 
dener  to  load  this  cannon. 

Presently  the  masters  began  to  dip  the  house-flag 
when  outward  bound,  and  discovered  that,  whether  The 
Laird  sat  at  his  desk  in  the  mill  office  or  watched  from 
the  cliff,  they  drew  an  answering  salute. 

This  was  their  hail  and  farewell. 

One  morning,  the  barkentine  Hathor,  towing  out  for 
Delagoa  Bay,  dipped  her  house-flag,  and  the  watch  at 
their  stations  bent  their  gaze  upon  the  house  on  the 
cliff.  Long  they  waited  but  no  answering  salute 
greeted  the  acknowledgment  of  their  affectionate  and 
willing  service. 

The  mate's  glance  met  the  master's. 

"The  old  laird  must  be  unwell,  sir,"  he  opined. 

But  the  master  shook  his  head. 

"He  was  to  have  had  dinner  aboard  with  us  last 
night,  but  early  in  the  afternoon  he  sent  over  word 
that  he'd  like  to  be  excused.  He's  sick  at  heart,  poor 
man !  Daney  tells  me  he's  heard  the  town  gossip  about 
young  Donald." 

"The  lad's  a  gentleman,  sir,"  the  mate  defended. 
"He'll  not  disgrace  his  people." 

"He's  young — and  youth  must  be  served.     Man,  I 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  3 

was  young  myself  once  —  and  Nan  of  the  Sawdust  Pile 
is  not  a  woman  a  young  man  would  look  at  once  and  go 
his 


In  the  southwestern  corner  of  the  state  of  Washing 
ton,  nestled  in  the  Bight  of  Tyee  and  straddling  the 
Skookum  River,  lies  the  little  sawmill  town  of  Port 
Agnew.  It  is  a  community  somewhat  difficult  to  locate, 
for  the  Bight  of  Tyee  is  not  of  sufficient  importance 
as  a  harbor  to  have  won  consideration  by  the  cartog 
raphers  of  the  Coast  and  Geodetic  Survey,  and  Port 
Agnew  is  not  quite  forty  years  old.  Consequently,  it 
appears  only  on  the  very  latest  state  maps  and  in  the 
smallest  possible  type. 

When  Hector  McKaye  first  gazed  upon  the  bight, 
the  transcontinental  lines  had  not  yet  begun  to  con 
sider  the  thrusting  of  their  tentacles  into  southwestern 
Washington,  and,  with  the  exception  of  those  regions 
where  good  harbors  had  partially  solved  the  problem 
of  transportation,  timber  in  Washington  was  very 
cheap.  Consequently,  since  Hector  McKaye  was  one 
of  those  hardy  men  who  never  hesitate  to  take  that 
which  no  man  denies  them,  he  reached  forth  and  ac 
quired  timber. 

A  strip  of  land  a  quarter  of  a  mile  wide  and  fronting 
the  beach  was  barren  of  commercial  timber.  As  graz- 
ing-land,  Hector  McKaye  was  enabled  to  file  on  a  full 
section  of  this,  and,  with  its  acquisition,  he  owned  the 
key  to  the  outlet.  While  "proving  up"  his  claim,  he 
operated  a  general  store  for  trading  with  the  Indians 
and  trappers,  and  at  this  he  prospered.  From  time  to 
time  he  purchased  timber-claims  from  the  trappers  as 
fast  as  they  "proved  up,"  paying  for  these  stumpage- 


4  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

prices  varying  from  twenty-five  to  fifty  cents  per  t-iou- 
sand. 

On  his  frequent  trips  to  the  outer  world,  McXaye 
extolled  the  opportunities  for  acquiring  good  ti.nber- 
claims  down  on  the  Skookum;  he  advertised  them  in 
letters  and  in  discreet  interviews  with  the  editors  of 
little  newspapers  in  the  sawmill  towns  on  Puget  Sound 
and  Grays  Harbor;  he  let  it  be  known  that  an  honest 
fellow  could  secure  credit  for  a  winter's  provisions 
from  him,  and  pay  for  it  with  pelts  in  the  spring. 

The  influx  of  homesteaders  increased — single  men, 
for  the  most  part,  and  poor — men  who  labored  six 
months  of  the  year  elsewhere  and  lived  the  remaining 
six  months  in  rude  log  huts  on  their  claims  down  on 
the  Skookum.  And  when  the  requirements  of  the  home 
stead  laws  had  been  complied  with  and  a  patent  to  their 
quarter-section  obtained  from  the  Land  Office  in  Wash 
ington,  the  homesteaders  were  ready  to  sell  and  move  on 
to  other  and  greener  pastures.  So  they  sold  to  the  only 
possible  purchaser,  Hector  McKaye,  and  departed, 
quite  satisfied  with  a  profit  which  they  flattered  them 
selves  had  been  the  result  of  their  own  prudence  and 
foresight. 

Thus,  in  the  course  of  ten  years,  Hector  McKaye 
acquired  ten  thousand  acres  of  splendid  Douglas  fir 
and  white  cedar.  But  he  had  not  been  successful  in  ac 
quiring  claims  along  the  south  bank  of  the  Skookum. 
For  some  mysterious  reason,  he  soon  found  claims  on 
the  north  bank  cheaper  and  easier  to  secure,  albeit  the 
timber  showed  no  variance  in  quantity  or  quality.  Dis 
creet  investigations  brought  to  light  the  fact  that  he 
had  a  competitor — one  Martin  Darrow,  who  dwelt  in 
St.  Paul,  Minnesota.  To  St.  Paul,  therefore,  jour- 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  5 

neyed  Hector  McKaye,  and  sought  an  audience  with 
Martin  Darrow. 

"I'm  McKaye,  from  the  Skookum  River,  Washing 
ton,"  he  announced,  without  preamble. 

"I've  been  expecting  you,  Mr.  McKaye,"  Darrow 
replied.  "Got  a  proposition  to  submit?" 

"Naturally,  or  I  wouldn't  have  come  to  St.  Paul.  I 
notice  you  have  a  weakness  for  the  timber  on  the  south 
bank  of  the  Skookum.  You've  opposed  me  there  half 
a  dozen  times  and  won.  I  have  also  observed  that  I 
have  a  free  hand  with  claims  north  of  the  river.  That's 
fair — and  ^there's  timber  enough  for  two.  Hereafter, 
I'll  keep  to  my  own  side  of  the  river." 

"I  see  we're  going  to  come  to  an  understanding,  Mr. 
McKaye.  What  will  you  give  me  to  stick  to  my  side 
of  the  river?" 

"An  outlet  through  the  bight  for  your  product  when 
you  commence  manufacturing.  I  control  the  lower 
half-mile  of  the  river  and  the  only  available  mill-sites. 
I'll  give  you  a  mill-site  if  you'll  pay  half  the  expense 
of  digging  a  new  channel  for  the  Skookum,  and  chang 
ing  its  course  so  it  will  emerge  into  the  still,  deep  water 
under  the  lee  of  Tyee  Head." 

"We'll  do  business,"  said  Martin  Darrow — and  they 
did,  although  it  was  many  years  after  Hector  McKaye 
had  incorporated  the  Tyee  Lumber  Company  and 
founded  his  "own  of  Port  Agnew  before  Darrow  began 
operations. 

True  to  his  promise,  McKaye  deeded  him  a  mill-  and 
town-site,  and  he  founded  a  settlement  on  the  eastern 
edge  of  Port  Agnew,  but  quite  distinct  from  it,  and 
called  it  Darrow,  after  himself.  It  was  not  a  com 
munity  that  Hector  McKaye  approved  of,  for  it  was 


G  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

squalid  and  unsanitary,  and  its  untidy,  unpainted 
shacks  of  rough  lumber  harbored  southern  European 
labor,  of  which  Hector  McKaye  would  have  none.  In 
Darrow,  also,  there  were  three  groggeries  and  a  gam 
bling-house,  with  the  usual  concomitant  of  women  whose 
profession  is  the  oldest  and  the  saddest  in  the  world. 

Following  his  discovery  of  the  Bight  of  Tyee,  a  quar 
ter  of  a  century  passed.  A  man  may  prosper  much  in 
twenty-five  years,  and  Hector  McKaye,  albeit  American 
born,  was  bred  of  an  acquisitive  race.  When  his  Geth- 
semane  came  upon  him,  he  was  rated  the  richest  lum 
berman  in  the  state  of  Washington;  his  twenty-thou- 
sand-board-feet-capacity-per-day  sawmill  had  grown 
to  five  hundred  thousand,  his  ten  thousand  acres  to  a 
hundred  thousand.  Two  thousand  persons  looked  to 
him  and  his  enterprise  for  their  bread  and  butter;  he 
owned  a  fleet  of  half  a  dozen  steam-schooners  and  six 
teen  big  wind-jammers;  he  owned  a  town  which  he  had 
called  Port  Agnew,  and  he  had  married  and  been  blessed 
with  children.  And  because  his  ambition  no  longer  de 
manded  it,  he  was  no  longer  a  miser. 

In  a  word,  he  was  a  happy  man,  and  in  affectionate 
pride  and  as  a  tribute  to  his  might,  his  name  and  an 
occasional  forget-me-not  of  speech  which  clung  to  his 
tongue,  heritage  of  his  Scotch  forebears,  his  people 
called  him  "The  Laird  of  Tyee."  Singularly  enough, 
His  character  fitted  this  cognomen  rather  well.  Re 
served,  proud,  independent,  and  sensitive,  thinking 
straight  and  talking  straight,  a  man  of  brusque  yet  ten 
der  sentiment  which  was  wont  to  manifest  itself  unex 
pectedly,  it  had  been  said  of  him  that  in  a  company  of 
a  hundred  of  his  mental,  physical,  and  financial  peers, 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST     .  9 

about  himself,  and  he  had  discovered  that  if  he  gave  his 
wife  and  daughters  everything  they  desired,  he  was  not 
apt  to  be  nagged. 

Only  on  one  occasion  had  Hector  McKaye  declared 
himself  master  in  his  own  house,  and,  at  the  risk  of 
appearing  paradoxical,  this  was  before  the  house  had 
been  built.  One  day,  while  they  still  occupied  their 
first  home  (in  Port  Agnew),  a  house  with  a  mansard 
roof,  two  towers,  jig-saw  and  scroll-work  galore,  and 
the  usual  cast-iron  mastiffs  and  deer  on  the  front 
lawn,  The  Laird  had  come  gleefully  home  from  a  trip 
to  Seattle  and  proudly  exhibited  the  plans  for  a  new 
house. 

Ensued  examination  and  discussion  by  his  wife  and 
the  young  ladies.  Alas !  The  Laird's  dream  of  a  home 
did  not  correspond  with  that  of  his  wife,  although, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  lady  had  no  ideas  on  the  sub 
ject  beyond  an  insistence  that  the  house  should  be 
"worthy  of  their  station,"  and  erected  in  a  fashionable 
suburb  of  Seattle.  Elizabeth  and  Jane  aided  and  abet 
ted  her  in  clamoring  for  a  Seattle  home,  although  both 
were  quick  to  note  the  advantages  of  a  picturesque 
country  home  on  the  cliffs  above  the  bight.  They  urged 
their  father  to  build  his  house,  but  condemned  his 
plans.  They  desired  a  house  some  three  times  larger 
than  the  blue-prints  called  for. 

Hector  McKaye  said  nothing.  The  women  chattered 
and  argued  among  themselves  until,  Elizabeth  and  Jane 
having  vanquished  their  mother,  all  three  moved  brisk 
ly  to  the  attack  upon  The  Laird.  When  they  had 
talked  themselves  out  and  awaited  a  reply,  he  gave  it 
with  the  simple  directness  of  his  nature.  It  was  evi 
dent  that  he  had  given  his  answer  thought. 


10  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

"I  can  never  live  in  Seattle  until  I  retire,  and  I  can 
not  retire  until  Donald  takes  my  place  in  the  business. 
That  means  that  Donald  must  live  here.  Consequently, 
I  shall  spend  half  of  my  time  with  you  and  the  girls  in 
Seattle,  mother,  and  the  other  half  with  Donald  here. 
When  we  built  our  first  home,  you  had  your  way — and 
I've  lived  in  this  architectural  horror  ever  since.  This 
time,  I'm  going  to  have  my  own  way — and  you've  lived 
with  me  long  enough  to  know  that  when  I  declare  for 
a  will  of  my  own,  I'll  not  be  denied.  Well  I  realize 
you  and  the  girls  have  outgrown  Port  Agnew.  There's 
naught  here  to  interest  you,  and  I  would  not  have 
woman  o'  mine  unhappy.  So  plan  your  house  in  Seat 
tle,  and  I'll  build  it  and  spare  no  expense.  As  for  this 
house  on  the  headland,  you  have  no  interest  in  it.  Don 
ald's  approved  the  plans,  and  him  only  will  I  defer  to. 
'Twill  be  his  house  some  day — his  and  his  wife's,  when 
he  gets  one.  And  there  will  be  no  more  talk  oT  It,  my 
dears.  I'll  not  take  it  kindly  of  ye  to  interfere." 


n 


AT  a  period  in  his  upward  climb  to  fortune,  when 
as  yet  Hector  McKaye  had  not  fulfilled  his  dream 
of  a  factory  for  the  manufacture  of  his  waste  and 
short-length  stock  into  sash,  door,  blinds,  moldings, 
and  so  forth,  he  had  been  wont  to  use  about  fifty  per 
cent,  of  this  material  for  fuel  to  maintain  steam  in 
the  mill  boilers,  while  the  remainder  passed  out  over 
the  waste-conveyor  to  the  slab  pile,  where  it  was  burned. 

The  sawdust,  however,  remained  to  be  disposed  of, 
and  since  it  was  not  possible  to  burn  this  in  the  slab 
fire  fo*  the  reason  that  the  wet  sawdust  blanketed  the 
flames  and  resulted  in  a  profusion  of  smol  5  that  blew 
back  upon  the  mill  to  the  annoyance  of  the  employees, 
for  many  years  The  Laird  had  caused  this* accumulated 
sawdust  to  be  hauled  to  the  edge  of  the  bight  on  the 
north  side  of  the  town,  and  there  dumped  in  a  low, 
marshy  spot  which  formerly  had  bred  millions  of  mos 
quitoes. 

Subsequently,  in  the  process  of  grading  the  streets 
of  Port  Agnew  and  excavating  cellars,  waste  dirt  had 
been  dumped  with  the  sawdust,  and,  occasionally,  when 
high  winter  tides  swept  over  the  spot,  sand,  small  stones, 
sea-shells,  and  kelp  were  added  to  the  mixture.  And 
as  if  this  were  not  sufficient,  the  citizens  of  Port  Agnew 
contributed  from  time  to  time  old  barrels  and  bottles, 
yard-sweepings,  tin  cans,  and  superannuated  stoves  and 
kitchen  utensils. 

11 


12  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

Slowly  this  dump  crept  out  on  the  beach,  and  in  order 
to  prevent  the  continuous  attrition  of  the  surf  upon  the 
outer  edge  of  it  from  befouling  the  white-sand  bath 
ing-beach  farther  up  the  Bight  of  Tyee,  The  Laird  had 
driven  a  double  row  of  fir  piling  parallel  with  and  be 
yond  the  line  of  breakers.  This  piling,  driven  as  close 
together  as  possible  and  reenforced  with  two-inch  plank 
ing  between,  formed  a  bulkhead  with  the  flanks  curving 
in  to  the  beach,  thus  insuring  practically  a  water-tight 
pen  some  two  acres  in  extent;  and,  with  the  passage 
of  years,  this  became  about  two-thirds  filled  with  the 
waste  from  the  town.  Had  The  Laird  ever  decided  to 
lay  claim  to  the  Sawdust  Pile/ there  would  have  been 
none  in  Port  Agnew  to  contest  his  title;  since  he  did 
not  claim  it,  the  Sawdust  Pile  became  a  sort  of  No 
Man's  Land. 

After  The  Laird  erected  his  factory  and  began  to 
salvage  his  waste,  the  slab  fire  went  out  forever  for  lack 
of  fuel,  and  the  modicum  of  waste  from  the  mill  and 
factory,  together  with  the  sawdust,  was  utilized  for  fuel 
in  an  electric-light  plant  that  furnished  light,  heat,  and 
power  to  the  town.  Consequently,  sawdust  no  longer 
mercifully  covered  the  trash  on  the  Sawdust  Pile  as  fast 
as  this  trash  arrived,  and,  one  day,  Hector  McKaye, 
observing  this,  decided  that  it  was  an  unsightly  spot  and 
not  quite  worthy  of  his  town  of  Port  Agnew.  So  he 
constructed  a  barge  somewhat  upon  the  principle  of  a 
patent  dump-wagon,  moored  it  to  the  river-bank, 
created  a  garbage  monopoly  in  Port  Agnew,  and  sold  it 
for  five  thousand  dollars  to  a  pair  of  ambitious  Ital 
ians.  With  the  proceeds  of  this  garbage  deal,  The 
Laird  built  a  very  pretty  little  public  library. 

Having  organized  his  new  garbage  system  (the  gar- 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  IB 

bage  was  to  be  towed  twenty  miles  to  sea  and  there 
dumped),  The  Laird  forbade  further  dumping  on  the 
Sawdust  Pile.  When  the  necessity  for  more  dredger- 
work  developed,  in  order  to  keep  the  deep  channel  of 
the  Skookum  from  filling,  he  had  the  pipes  from  the 
dredger  run  out  to  the  Sawdust  Pile  and  covered  the 
unsightly  spot  with  six  feet  of  rich  river-silt  up  to  the 
level  of  the  piling. 

"And  now,"  said  Hector  McKaye  to  Andrew  Daney, 
his  general  manager,  "when  that  settles,  we'll  run  a 
light  track  out  here  and  use  the  Sawdust  Pile  for  a 
drying-yard." 

The  silt  settled  and  dried,  and  almost  immediately 
thereafter  a  squatter  took  possession  of  the  Saw*- 
dust  Pile.  Across  the  neck  of  the  little  promontory, 
and  in  line  with  extreme  high-water  mark  on  each  side, 
he  erected  a  driftwood  fence;  he  had  a  canvas,  drift 
wood,  and  corrugated-iron  shanty  well  under  way  when 
Hector  McKaye  appeared  on  the  scene  and  bade  him  a 
pleasant  good-morning. 

The  squatter  turned  from  his  labor  and  bent  upon 
his  visitor  an  appraising  glance.  His  scrutiny  appear 
ing  to  satisfy  him  as  to  the  identity  of  the  latter,  he 
straightened  suddenly  and  touched  his  forelock  in  a 
queer  little  salute  that  left  one  in  doubt  whether  he 
was  a  former  member  of  the  United  States  navy  or  the 
British  mercantile  marine.  He  was  a  threadbare  little 
man,  possibly  sixty  years  old,  with  a  russet,  kindly 
countenance  and  mild  blue  eyes ;  apart  from  his  salute, 
there  was  about  him  an  intangible  hint  of  the  sea.  He 
was  being  assisted  in  his  labors  by  a  ragamuffin  girl  of 
perhaps  thirteen  years. 


14  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

"Thinking  of  settling  in  Port  Agnew?"  The  Laird 
inquired. 

"Why,  yes,  sir.  I  thought  this  might  make  a  good 
safe  anchorage  for  Nan  and  me.  My  name  is  Caleb 
Brent.  You're  Mr.  McKaye,  aren't  you?'* 

The  Laird  nodded. 

"I  had  an  idea,  when  I  filled  this  spot  in  and  built 
that  bulkhead,  Mr.  Brent,  that  some  day  this  would 
make  a  safe  anchorage  for  some  of  my  lumber.  I 
planned  a  drying-yard  here.  What's  that  you're  build 
ing,  Brent  ?  A  hen-house  ?" 

Caleb  Brent  flushed. 

"Why,  no,  sir.  I'm  making  shift  to  build  a  home 
here  for  Nan  and  me." 

"Is  this  little  one  Nan?" 

The  ragamuffin  girl,  her  head  slightly  to  one  side, 
had  been  regarding  Hector  McKaye  with  alert  curios 
ity  mingled  with  furtive  apprehension.  As  he  glanced 
at  her  now,  she  remembered  her  manners  and  dropped 
him  a  courtesy — an  electric,  half-defiant  jerk  that  re 
minded  The  Laird  of  a  similar  greeting  customarily  ex 
tended  by  squinch-owls. 

Nan  was  not  particularly  clean,  and  her  one-piece 
dress,  of  heavy  blue  navy-uniform  cloth  was  old  and 
worn  and  spotted.  Over  this  dress  she  wore  a  boy's 
coarse  red-worsted  sweater  with  white-pearl  buttons. 
The  skin  of  her  thin  neck  was  fine  and  creamy;  the 
calves,  of  her  bare  brown  legs  were  shapely,  her  feet 
small,  her  ankles  dainty. 

With  the  quick  eye  of  the  student  of  character,  this 
man,  proud  of  his  own  ancient  lineage  for  all  his  hum 
ble  beginning,  noted  that  her  hands,  though  brown  and 
uncared-for,  were  small  and  dimpled,  with  long,  deli- 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  15 

cate  fingers.  She  had  sea-blue  eyes  like  Caleb  Brent's, 
and,  like  his,  they  were  sad  and  wistful;  a  frowsy  wil 
derness  of  golden  hair,  very  fine  and  held  in  confinement 
at  the  nape  of  her  neck  by  the  simple  expedient  of  a 
piece  of  twine,  showed  all  too  plainly  the  lack  of  a 
mother's  care. 

The  Laird  returned  Nan's  courtesy  with  a  patroniz 
ing  inclination  of  his  head. 

"Your  granddaughter,  I  presume?"  he  addressed 
Caleb  Brent. 

"No;  my  daughter,  sir.  I  was  forty  when  I  mar 
ried,  and  Nan  came  ten  years  later.  She's  thirteen 
now,  and  her  mother's  been  dead  ten  years." 

Hector  McKaye  had  an  idea  that  the  departed 
mother  was  probably  just  as  well,  if  not  better,  off, 
free  of  the  battle  for  existence  which  appeared  to  con 
front  this  futile  old  man  and  his  elf  of  a  daughter.  He 
glanced  at  the  embryo  shack  under  construction  and, 
comparing  it  with  his  own  beautiful  home  on  Tyee 
Head,  he  turned  toward  the  bight.  A  short  distance 
off  the  bulkhead,  he  observed  a  staunch  forty-foot 
motor-cruiser  at  anchor.  She  would  have  been  the  bet 
ter  for  a  coat  of  paint ;  undeniably  she  was  of  a  piece 
with  Caleb  Brent  and  Nan,  for,  like  them,  The  Laird 
had  never  seen  her  before. 

"Yours?"  he  queried. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"You  arrived  in  her,  then?" 

"I  did,  sir.  Nan  and  I  came  down  from  Bremerton 
in  her,  sir." 

The  Laird  owned  many  ships,  and  he  noted  the  slur 
ring  of  the  "sir"  as  only  an  old  sailor  can  slur  it.  And 
there  was  a  naval  base  at  Bremerton. 


16  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

"You're  an  old  sailor,  aren't  you,  Brent?"  he  pur 
sued. 

"Yes,  sir.  I  was  retired  a  chief  petty  officer,  sir. 
Thirty  years'  continuous  service,  sir — and  I  was  in  the 
mercantile  marine  at  sixteen.  I've  served  my  time  as  a 
shipwright.  Am — am  I  intruding  here,  sir?" 

The  Laird  smiled,  and  followed  the  smile  with  a  brief 
chuckje. 

"Well — yes  and  no.  I  haven't  any  title  to  this  land 
you've  elected  to  occupy,  although  I  created  it.  You 
see,  I'm  sort  of  lord  of  creation  around  here.  My  peo 
ple  call  me  'The  Laird  of  Tyee,'  and  nobody  but  a 
stranger  would  have  had  the  courage  to  squat  on  the 
Sawdust  Pile  without  consulting  me.  What's  your  idea 
about  it,  Brent?" 

"I'll  go  if  you  want  me  to,  sir." 

"I  mean  what's  your  idea  if  you  stay?  What  do  you 
expect  to  do  for  a  living?" 

"You  will  observe,  sir,  that  I  have  fenced  off  only 
that  portion  of  the  dump  beyond  high-water  mark. 
That  takes  in  about  half  of  it — about  an  acre  and  a 
half.  Well,  I  thought  I'd  keep  some  chickens  and  raise 
some  garden  truck.  This  silt  will  grow  anything.  And 
I  have  my  launch,  and  can  do  some  towing,  maybt-,  or 
take  fishing  parties  out.  I  might  supply  the  town  with 
fish.  I  understand  you  import  your  fish  from  Seattle 
— and  with  the  sea  right  here  at  your  door." 

"I  see.  And  you  have  your  three-quarters  pay  as  a 
retired  chief  petty  officer?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Anything  in  bank?  I  do  not  ask  these  personal 
questions,  Brent,  out  of  mere  idle  curiosity.  This  is  my 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  17 

town,  you  know,  and  there  is  no  poverty  in  it.  I'm 
rather  proud  of  that,  so  I 

"I  understand,  sir.  That's  why  I  came  to  Port 
Agnew.  I  saw  your  son  yesterday,  and  he  said  I  could 
stay." 

"Oh!  Well,  that's  all  right,  then.  If  Donald  told 
you  to  stay,  stay  you  shall.  Did  he  give  you  the  Saw 
dust  Pile?" 

"Yes,  sir;  he  did!" 

"Well,  I  had  other  plans  for  it,  Brent;  but  since 
you're  here,  I'll  offer  no  objection." 

Nan  now  piped  up. 

"We  haven't  any  money  in  bank,  Mr.  Laird,  but  we 
have  some  saved  up." 

"Indeed!  That's  encouraging.  Where  do  you  keep 
it?" 

"In  the  brown  teapot  in  the  galley.  We've  got  a 
hundred  and  ten  dollars." 

"Well,  my  little  lady,  I  think  you  might  do  well  to 
take  your  hundred  and  ten  dollars  out  of  the  brown 
teapot  in  the  galley  and  deposit  it  in  the  Port  Agnew 
bank.  Suppose  that  motor-cruiser  should  spring  a  leak 
and  sink?" 

Nan  smiled  and  shook  her  golden  head  in  negation. 
They  had  beaten  round  Cape  Flattery  in  that  boat,  and 
she  had  confidence  in  it. 

"Would  you  know  my  boy  if  you  should  see  him 
again,  Nan?"  The  Laird  demanded  suddenly. 

"Oh,  yes,  indeed,  sir !    He's  such  a  nice  boy." 

"I  think,  Nan,  that  if  you  asked  him,  he  might  help 
your  father  build  this  house." 

"I'll  see  him  this  afternoon  when  he  comes  out  of 
high  school,"  Nan  declared. 


18  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

"You  might  call  on  Andrew  Daney,  my  general  man 
ager,"  The  Laird  continued,  turning  to  Caleb  Brent, 
"and  make  a  dicker  with  him  for  hauling  our  garbage- 
scow  out  to  sea  and  dumping  it.  I  observe  that  your 
motor-boat  is  fitted  with  towing-bitts.  We  dump  twice 
a  week.  And  you  may  have  a  monopoty  on  fresh  fish 
if  you  desire  it.  We  have  no  fishermen  here,  because 
I  do  not  care  for  Greeks  and  Sicilians  in  Port  Agnew. 
And  they're  about  the  only  fishermen  on  this  coast." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  McKaye." 

"Mind  you  don't  abuse  your  monopoly.  If  you  do, 
I'll  take  it  away  from  you." 

"You  are  very  kind,  sir.  And  I  can  have  the  Sawdust 
Pile,  sir?" 

"Yes ;  since  Donald  gave  it  to  you.  However,  I  wish 
you'd  tear  down  that  patchwork  fence  and  replace  it 
with  a  decent  job  the  instant  you  can  afford  it." 

"Ah,  just  wait,"  old  Brent  promised.  "I  know  how 
to  make  things  neat  and  pretty  and  keep  them  ship 
shape.  You  just  keep  your  eye  on  the  Sawdust  Pile, 
sir."  The  old  wind-bitten  face  flushed  with  pride;  the 
faded  sea-blue  eyes  shone  with  joyous  anticipation. 
"I've  observed  your  pride  in  your  town,  sir,  and  be 
fore  I  get  through,  I'll  have  a  prettier  place  than  the 
best  of  them." 

A  few  days  later,  The  Laird  looked  across  the  Bight 
of  Tyee  from  his  home  on  Tyee  Head,  and  through  his 
marine  glasses  studied  the  Sawdust  Pile.  He  chuckled 
as  he  observed  that  the  ramshackle  shanty  had  disap 
peared  almost  as  soon  as  it  had  been  started  and  in  its 
place  a  small  cottage  was  being  erected.  There  was  a 
pile  of  lumber  in  the  yard — bright  lumber,  fresh  from 
the  saws — and  old  Caleb  Brent  and  the  motherless  Nan 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  If) 

were  being  assisted  by  two  carpenters  on  the  Tyee 
Lumber  Company's  pay-roll. 

When  Donald  came  home  from  school  that  night, 
The  Laird  asked  him  about  the  inhabitants  of  the  Saw 
dust  Pile  with  relation  to  the  lumber  and  the  two  car- 
penters. 

"Oh,  I  made  a  trade  with  Mr.  Brent  and  Nan.  I'm  to 
furnish  the  lumber  and  furniture  for  the  house,  and 
those  two  carpenters  weren't  very  busy,  so  Mr.  Daney 
told  me  I  could  have  them  to  help  out.  In  return,  Mr. 
Brent  is  going  to  build  me  a  sloop  and  teach  me  how  to 
sail  it." 

The  Laird  nodded. 

"When  his  little  home  is  completed,  Donald,"  he  sug 
gested  presently,  "you  might  take  old  Brent  and  his 
girl  over  to  our  old  house  in  town  and  let  them  have 
what  furniture  they  require.  See  if  you  cannot  man 
age  to  saw  off  some  of  your  mother's  antiques  on  them," 
he  added  whimsically.  "By  the  way,  what  kind  of 
shanty  is  old  Brent  going  to  build  ?" 

"A  square  house  with  five  rooms  and  a  cupola  fitted 
up  like  a  pilot-house.  There's  to  be  a  flagpole  on  the 
cupola,  and  Nan  says  they'll  have  colors  every  night 
and  morning.  That  means  that  you  hoist  the  flag  in 
the  morning  and  salute  it,  and  when  you  haul  it  down  at 
night,  you  salute  it  again.  They  do  that  up  at  the 
Bremerton  navy-yard." 

"That's  rather  a  nice,  sentimental  idea,"  Hector  Mc- 
Kaye  replied.  "I  rather  like  old  Brent  and  his  girl  for 
that.  We  Americans  are  too  prone  to  take  our  flag  and 
what  it  stands  for  rather  lightly." 

"Nan  wants  me  to  have  colors  up  here,  too,"  Donald 


90  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

continued.  "Then  she  can  see  our  flag,  and  we  can  see 
theirs  across  the  bight." 

"All  right,"  The  Laird  answered  heartily,  for  he 
was  always  profoundly  interested  in  anything  that  in 
terested  his  boy.  "I'll  have  the  woods  boss  get  out  a 
nice  young  cedar  with,  say,  a  twelve-inch  butt,  and 
we'll  make  it  into  a  flagpole." 

"If  we're  going  to  do  the  job  navy-fashion,  we  ought 
to  fire  a  sunrise  and  sunset  gun,"  Donald  suggested  with 
all  the  enthusiasm  of  his  sixteen  years. 

"Well,  I  think  we  can  afford  that,  too,  Donald." 

Thus  it  came  about  that  the  little  brass  cannon  was 
installed  on  its  concrete  base  on  the  cliff.  And  when 
the  flagpole  had  been  erected,  old  Caleb  Brent  came 
up  one  day,  built  a  little  mound  of  smooth,  sea-washed 
cobblestones  round  the  base,  and  whitewashed  them. 
Evidently  he  was  a  prideful  little  man,  and  liked  to  see 
things  done  in  a  seamanlike  manner.  And  presently  it 
became  a  habit  with  The  Laird  to  watch  night  and 
morning,  for  the  little  pin-prick  of  color  to  flutter  forth 
from  the  house  on  the  Sawdust  Pile,  and  if  his  own 
colors  did  not  break  forth  on  the  instant  and  the  little 
cannon  boom  from  the  cliff,  he  was  annoyed  and  de 
manded  an  explanation. 


m 


HECTOR  McKAYE  and  his  close-mouthed  general 
manager,  Andrew  Daney,  were  the  only  persons 
who  knew  the  extent  of  The  Laird's  fortune.  Even 
their  knowledge  was  approximate,  however,  for  The 
Laird  disliked  to  delude  himself,  and  carried  on  his 
books  at  their  cost-price  properties  which  had  appre 
ciated  tremendously  in  value  since  their  purchase.  The 
knowledge  of  his  wealth  brought  to  McKaye  a  goodly 
measure  of  happiness — not  because  he  was  of  Scottish 
ancestry  and  had  inherited  a  love  for  his  baubees,  but 
because  he  was  descended  from  a  fierce,  proud  Scottish 
clan,  and  wealth  spelled  kidependence  to  him  and  his. 

The  Laird  would  have  filled  his  cup  of  happiness  to 
overflowing  had  he  married  a  less  mediocre  woman  or 
had  he  raised  his  daughters  as  he  had  his  son.  The 
girls'  upbringing  had  been  left  entirely  in  their  moth 
er's  hands.  Not  so  with  young  Donald,  however— 
wherefore  it  was  a  byword  in  Port  Agnew  that  Donald 
was  his  father's  son,  a  veritable  chip  of  the  old  block. 

By  some  uncanny  alchemy,  hard  cash  appears  to 
soften  the  heads  and  relax  the  muscles  of  rich  men's 
sons — at  least,  such  had  been  old  Hector's  observation, 
and  on  the  instant  that  he  first  gazed  upon  the  face  of 
his  son,  there  had  been  born  in  him  a  mighty  resolve 
that,  come  what  might,  he  would  not  have  it  said  of  him 
that  he  had  made  a  fool  of  his  boy.  And  throughout 
the  glad  years  of  his  fatherhood,  with  the  stern  piety 

21 


£Z  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

of  his  race  and  his  faith,  he  had  knelt  night  and  morn 
ing  beside  his  bed  and  prayed  his  God  to  help  him  not 
to  make  a  fool  of  Donald — to  keep  Donald  from  mak 
ing  a  fool  of  himself. 

When  Donald  entered  Princeton,  his  father  decided 
upon  an  experiment.  He  had  raised  his  boy  right,  and 
trained  him  for  the  race  of  life,  and  now  The  Laird 
felt  that,  like  a  thoroughbred  horse,  his  son  faced  the 
barrier.  Would  he  make  the  run,  or  would  he,  in  the 
parlance  of  the  sporting  world,  "dog  it?"  Would  his 
four  years  at  a  great  American  university  make  of  him 
a  better  man,  or  would  he  degenerate  into  a  snob  and  a 
drone  ? 

With  characteristic  courage,  The  Laird  decided  to 
give  him  ample  opportunity  to  become  either,  for,  as  old 
Hector  remarked  to  Andrew  Daney:  "If  the  lad's  tho 
McKaye  I  think  he  is,  nothing  can  harm  him.  On 
the  other  hand,  if  I'm  mistaken,  I  want  to  know  it  in 
time,  for  my  money  and  my  Port  Agnew  Lumber  Com 
pany  is  a  trust,  and  if  he  can't  handle  it,  I'll  leave  it  to 
the  men  who  can — who've  helped  me  create  it — and 
Donald  shall  earn  his  bread  by  the  sweat  of  his  brow. 
Tools,"  he  added,  "belong  to  the  men  that  can  use 
them." 

When  Donald  started  East  for  college,  old  Hector 
accompanied  him  as  far  as  Seattle.  On  the  way  up, 
there  was  some  man-talk  between  them.  In  his  youth, 
old  Hector  had  not  been  an  angel,  which  is  to  state  that 
he  had  been  a  lumberjack.  He  knew  men  and  the  pas 
sions  that  beset  them — particularly  when  they  are 
young  and  lusty — and  he  was  far  from  being  a  pr.ulr. 
He  expected  his  son  to  raise  a  certain  amount  of 
oats ;  nay,  he  desired  it,  for  full  well  he  knew  that  wb<  n 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

the  fires  of  youth  are  quenched,  they  are  liable  to  flare 
disgracefully  in  middle  life  or  old  age. 

"Never  pig  it,  my  son,"  was  his  final  admonition. 
"Raise  hell  if  you  must,  but  if  you  love  your  old  father, 
be  a  gentleman  about  it.  You've  sprung  from  a  clan 
o'  men,  not  mollycoddles." 

"Hence  the  expression :  'When  Hector  was  a  pup,* " 
Donald  replied  laughingly.  "Well,  I'll  do  my  best, 
father — only,  if  I  stub  my  toe,  you  mustn't  be  too  hard 
on  me.  Remember,  please,  that  I'm  only  half  Scotch." 

At  parting,  The  Laird  handed  his  son  a  check  for 
twenty-five  thousand  dollars. 

"This  is  the  first  year's  allowance,  Donald,"  he  in 
formed  the  boy  gravely.  "It  should  not  require  more 
than  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  to  educate  a  son  of 
mine,  and  you  must  finish  in  four  years.  I  would  not 
care  to  think  you  dull  or  lazy." 

"Do  you  wish  an  accounting,  father?" 

The  Laird  shook  his  head. 

"Keeping  books  was  ever  a  sorry  trade,  my  son. 
I'll  read  the  accounting  in  your  eye  when  you  come  back 
to  Port  Agnew." 

"Oh!"  said  young  Donald. 

At  the  end  of  four  years,  Donald  graduated,  an 
honor-man  in  all  his  studies,  and  in  the  lobby  of  tho 
gymnasium,  where  the  athletic  heroes  of  Princeton  leave 
their  record  to  posterity,  Hector  McKaye  read  his  son's 
name,  for,  of  course,  he  was  there  for  commencement. 
Then  the}^  spent  a  week  together  in  New  York,  follow 
ing  which  old  Hector  announced  that  one  week  of  New 
York  vas  about  all  he  could  stand.  The  tall  timber 
railing  for  him. 

"Hoot,  mori !"  Donalci  protested  gaily.     He  was  a 


**  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

perfect  mimic  of  Sir  Harry  Lauder  at  his  broadest. 
"Y'eve  nae  had  a  bit  holiday  in  all  yer  life.  Wha' 
spier  ye,  Hector  McKaye,  to  a  trip  aroond  the  worl',  wi' 
a  wee  visit  tae  the  auld  clan  in  the  Hielands  ?" 

"Will  you  come  with  me,  son?"  The  Laird  inquired 
eagerly. 

"Certainly  not !  You  shall  come  with  me.  This  is 
to  be  my  party." 

"Can  you  stand  the  pressure  ?  I'm  liable  to  prove  an 
expensive  traveling  companion." 

"Well,  there's  something  radically  wrong  with  both 
of  us  if  we  can't  get  by  on  two  hundred  thousand  dol 
lars,  dad." 

The  Laird  started,  and  then  his  Scotch  sense  of 
humor — and,  for  all  the  famed  wit  of  the  Irish,  no 
humor  on  earth  is  so  unctuous  as  that  of  the  Scotch — 
commenced  to  bubble  up.  He  suspected  a  joke  on  him 
self  and  was  prepared  to  meet  it. 

"Will  you  demand  an  accounting,  my  son  ?" 

Donald  shook  his  head. 

"Keeping  books  was  ever  a  sorry  trade,  father.  I'll 
read  the  accounting  in  your  eye  when  you  get  back  to 
Port  Agiiew." 

"You  braw  big  scoundrel!  You've  been  up  to  some 
thing.  Tell  it  me,  man,  or  I'll  die  wi'  the  suspense  of 
it." 

"Well,"  Donald  replied,  "I  lived  on  twenty-five  hun 
dred  a  year  in  college  and  led  a  happy  life.  I  had  a 
heap  of  fun,  and  nothing  went  by  me  so  fast  that  I 
didn't  at  least  get  a  tail-feather.  My  college  educa 
tion,  therefore,  cost  me  ten  thousand  dollars,  and  I 
managed  to  squeeze  a  roadster  automobile  into  that, 
also.  With  the  remaining  ninety  thousand,  I  took  a 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  25 

flier  in  thirty-nine  hundred  acres  of  red  cedar  up  the 
Wiskah  River.  I  paid  for  it  on  the  instalment  plan 
— yearly  payments  secured  by  first  mortgage  at  six  per 
cent.,  and ' 

"Who  cruised  it  for  you?"  The  Laird  almost  shouted. 
"I'll  trust  no  cruiser  but  my  own  David  McGregor." 

"I  realized  that,  so  I  engaged  Dave  for  the  job. 
You  will  recall  that  he  and  I  took  a  two  months'  camp 
ing-trip  after  my  first  year  in  Princeton.  It  cruised 
eighty  thousand  feet  to  the  acre,  and  I  paid  two  dollars 
and  a  half  per  thousand  for  it.  Of  course,  we  didn't 
succeed  in  cruising  half  of  it,  but  we  rode  through  the 
remainder,  and  it  all  averaged  up  very  nicely.  And  I 
saw  a  former  cruise  of  it  made  by  a  disinterested 
cruiser " 

The  Laird  had  been  doing  mental  arithmetic. 

"It  cost  you  seven  hundred  and  eighty  thousand 
dollars — and  you've  paid  ninety  thousand,  principal 
and  interest,  on  account.  Why,  you  didn't  have  the 
customary  ten  per  cent,  of  the  purchase-price  as  an 
initial  payment!" 

"The  owner  was  anxious  to  sell.  Besides,  he  knew  I 
was  your  son,  and  I  suppose  he  concluded  that,  after 
getting  ninety  thousand  dollars  out  of  me  at  the  end 
of  three  years,  you'd  have  to  come  to  my  rescue  when 
the  balance  fell  due — in  a  lump.  If  you  didn't,  of 
course  he  could  foreclose." 

"I'll  save  you,  my  son.  It  was  a  good  deal — a  splen 
did  deal!" 

"You  do  not  have  to,  dad.  I've  sold  it — at  a  profit 
of  an  even  two  hundred  thousand  dollars!" 

"Lad,  why  did  you  do  it?    Why  didn't  you  take  me 


£6  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

into  your  confidence?  That  cedar  is  worth  three  and 
a  half.  In  a  few  years,  'twill  be  worth  five." 

"I  realized  that,  father,  but — a  bird  in  the  hand  is 
worth  two  in  the  bush — and  I'm  a  proud  sort  of  devil. 
I  didn't  want  to  run  to  you  for  help  on  my  first  deal, 
even  though  I  knew  you'd  come  to  my  rescue  and  ask 
no  questions.  You've  always  told  me  to  beware  of  ask 
ing  favors,  you  know.  Moreover,  I  had  a  very  friendly 
feeling  toward  the  man  I  sold  my  red  cedar  to ;  I  hated 
to  stick  him  too  deeply." 

"You  were  entitled  to  your  profit,  Donald.  'Twas 
business.  You  should  have  taken  it.  Ah,  lad,  if  you 
only  knew  the  terrible  four  years  I've  paid  for  yon  red- 
cedar  !" 

"You  mean  the  suspense  of  not  knowing  how  I  was 
spending  my  allowance?" 

The  Laird  nodded. 

"Curiosity  killed  a  cat,  my  son,  and  I'm  not  as  young 
as  I  used  to  be." 

"I  had  thought  you'd  have  read  the  accounting  in  my 
eye.  Take  another  look,  Hector  McKaye."  And  Don 
ald  thrust  his  smiling  countenance  close  to  his  fa 
ther's. 

"I  see  naught  in  your  eye  but  deviltry  and  jokes." 

"None  are  so  blind  as  they  that  will  not  see.  If  you 
see  a  joke,  dad,  it's  on  you." 

Old  Hector  blinked,  then  suddenly  he  sprang  at  his 
son,  grasped  him  by  the  shoulders,  and  backed  him 
against  the  wall. 

"Did  you  sell  me  that  red  cedar?"  he  demanded 
incredulously. 

"Aye,  mon ;  through  an  agent,"  Donald  burred  Scot- 
tishly.  "A'  did  nae  ha'  the  heart  tae  stick  my  faither 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

sae  deep  for  a  bit  skulin'.  A'm  a  prood  man,  Hector 
McKaye;  a'll  nae  take  a  grrand  eeducashun  at  sic  a 
price.  'Tis  nae  Christian." 

"Ah,  my  bonny  bairn!"  old  Hector  murmured  hap 
pily,  and  drew  his  fine  son  to  his  heart.  "What  a  grand 
joke  to  play  on  your  puir  old  father!  Och,  mon,  was 
there  ever  a  lad  like  mine  ?" 

"I  knew  you'd  buy  that  timber  for  an  investment  if 
I  offered  it  cheap  enough,"  Donald  explained, 
sides,  I  owed  you  a  poke.  You  wanted  to  be  certain 
you  hadn't  reared  a  jackass  instead  of  a  man,  so  you 
gave  me  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  and  stood  by  to  see 
what  I'd  do  with  it — didn't  you,  old  Scotty?"  Hector 
nodded  a  trifle  guiltily.  "Andrew  Daney  wrote  me  you 
swore  by  all  your  Highland  clan  that  the  man  who 
sold  you  that  red  cedar  was  ripe  for  the  fool-killer." 

"Tush,  tush !"  The  Laird  protested.  "You're  getting 
personal  now.  I  dislike  to  appear  inquisitive,  bub 
might  I  ask  what  you've  done  with  your  two  hundred 
thousand  profit?" 

"Well,  you  see,  dad,  I  would  have  felt  a  trifle  guilty 
had  I  kept  it,  so  I  blew  it  all  in  on  good,  conservative 
United  States  bonds,  registered  them  in  your  name,  and 
sent  them  to  Daney  to  hide  in  your  vault  at  Port 
Agnew." 

"Ah,  well,  red  cedar  or  bonds,  'twill  all  come  back 
to  you  some  day,  sonny.  The  real  profit's  in  the 

fun " 

"And  the  knowledge  that  I'm  not  a  fool — eh, 
father?" 

Father  love  supernal  gleamed  in  The  Laird's  fine 
gray  eyes. 

"Were  you  a  fool,  my  son,  and  all  that  I  have  in  the 


28  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

world  would  cure  you  if  thrown  into  the  Bight  of  Tyee, 
I'd  gladly  throw  it  and  take  up  my  life  where  I  began 
it — with  pike-pole  and  peavy,  double-bitted  ax,  and 
cross-cut  saw.  However,  since  you're  not  a  fool,  I  in 
tend  to  continue  to  enjoy  my  son.  We'll  go  around  the 
world  together." 

Thus  did  the  experiment  end.  At  least,  Donald 
thought  so.  But  when  he  left  the  hotel  a  few  minutes 
later  to  book  two  passages  to  Europe,  The  Laird  of 
Tyee  suddenly  remembered  that  thanks  were  due  his 
Presbyterian  God.  So  he  slid  to  his  old  knees  beside 
his  bed  and  murmured: 

"Lord,  I  thank  thee!  For  the  sake  of  thine  own 
martyred  Son,  set  angels  to  guard  him  and  lead  him  in 
the  path  of  manly  honor  that  comes  at  last  to  thy 
kingdom.  Amen." 

Then  he  wired  Andrew  Daney  a  long  telegram  of  in 
structions  and  a  stiff  raise  in  salary. 

"The  boy  has  a  head  like  a  tar-bucket,"  he  con 
cluded.  "Everything  I  ever  put  into  it  has  stuck. 
We  are  going  to  frolic  round  the  world  together,  and  we 
will  be  home  when  we  get  back." 


IV 


"T^ONALD  was  twenty-four  and  The  Laird  fifty- 
•*-^  eight  when  the  pair  returned  from  their  frolic 
round  the  world — Donald  to  take  up  this  father's  la 
bors,  The  Laird  to  lay  them  aside  and  retire  to  The 
Dreamerie  and  the  books  he  had  accumulated  against 
this  happy  afterglow  of  a  busy  and  fruitful  life. 

Donald's  mother  and  sisters  were  at  The  Dreamerie 
the  night  the  father  and  son  arrived.  Of  late  years, 
they  had  spent  less  and  less  of  their  time  there.  The 
Laird  had  never  protested,  for  he  could  not  blame  them 
for  wearying  of  a  little  backwoods  sawmill  town  like 
Port  Agnew. 

With  his  ability  to  think  calmly,  clearly,  and  unsel 
fishly,  he  had  long  since  realized  that  eventually  his 
girls  must  marry;  now  Elizabeth  was  twenty-six  and 
Jane  twenty-eight,  and  Mrs.  McKaye  was  beginning  to 
be  greatly  concerned  for  their  future.  Since  The  Laird 
had  built  The  Dreamerie  in  opposition  to  their  wishes, 
they  had  spent  less  than  six  months  in  each  year  at 
Port  Agnew.  And  these  visits  had  been  scattered 
throughout  the  year.  They  had  traveled  much,  and, 
when  not  traveling,  they  lived  in  the  Seattle  house  and 
were  rather  busy  socially.  Despite  his  devotion  to  his 
business,  however,  The  Laird  found  time  to  spend  at 
least  one  week  in  each  month  with  them  in  Seattle, 
in  addition  to  the  frequent  business  trips  which  took 
him  there. 

29 


30  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

That  night  of  his  home-coming  was  the  happiest 
The  Laird  had  ever  known,  for  it  marked  the  culmina 
tion  of  his  lifetime  of  labor  and  dreams.  Long  after 
his  wife  and  the  girls  had  retired,  he  and  Donald  sat 
in  the  comfortable  living-room,  smoking  and  discussing 
plans  for  the  future,  until  presently,  these  matters  hav 
ing  been  discussed  fully,  there  fell  a  silence  between 
them,  to  be  broken  presently  by  The  Laird. 

"I'm  wondering,  Donald,  if  you  haven't  met  some 
bonny  lass  you'd  like  to  bring  home  to  Port  Agnew. 
You  realize,  of  course,  that  there's  room  on  Tyee  Head 
for  another  Dreamerie,  although  I  built  this  one  for 
you — and  her." 

"There'll  be  no  other  house  on  Tyee  Head,  father," 
Donald  answered,  "unless  you  care  to  build  one  for 
mother  and  the  girls.  The  wife  that  I'll  bring  home  to 
Fort  Agnew  will  not  object  to  my  father  in  my  house." 
He  smiled  and  added,  "You're  not  at  all  hard  to  get 
along  with,  you  know." 

The  Laird's  eyes  glistened. 

"Have  you  found  her  yet,  my  son?" 

Donald  shook  his  head  in  negation. 

"Then  look  for  her,"  old  Hector  ordered.  "I  have 
no  doubt  that,  when  you  find  her,  she'll  be  worthy  of 
you.  I'm  at  an  age  now  when  a  man  looks  no  longer 
into  the  future  but  dwells  in  the  past,  and  it's  hard  for 
me  to  think  of  you,  big  man  that  you  are,  as  anything 
save  a  wee  laddie  trotting  at  my  side.  Now,  if  I  had  a 
grandson " 

When,  presently,  Donald  bade  him  good-night,  Hec 
tor  McKaye  turned  off  the  lights  and  sat  in  the  dark, 
gazing  down  across  the  moonlit  Bight  of  Tyee  to  the 
sparks  that  flew  upward  from  the  stacks  of  his  saw- 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  SI 

mill  in  Port  Agnew,  for  they  were  running  a  night 
shift.  And,  as  he  gazed,  he  thrilled,  with  a  fierce  pride 
and  a  joy  that  was  almost  pain,  in  the  knowledge  that 
he  had  reared  a  merchant  prince  for  this,  his  princi 
pality  of  Tyee. 


TJECTOR  McKAYE  had  always  leaned  toward  the 
•*•  •*•  notion  that  he  could  run  Port  Agnew  better  than 
a  mayor  and  a  town  council,  in  addition  to  deriving 
some  fun  out  of  it ;  consequently,  Port  Agnew  had  never 
been  incorporated.  And  this  was  an  issue  it  was  not 
deemed  wise  to  press,  for  The  Tyee  Lumber  Company 
owned  every  house  and  lot  in  town,  and  Hector  McKay c 
owned  every  share  of  stock  in  the  Tyee  Lumber 
Company. 

If  he  was  a  sort  of  feudal  baron,  he  was  a  gentle 
and  kindly  one;  large  building-plots,  pretty  little  bun 
galows,  cheap  rentals,  and  no  taxation  constituted  a 
social  condition  that  few  desired  to  change.  As  these 
few  developed  and  The  Laird  discovered  them,  their 
positions  in  his  employ,  were  forfeited,  their  rents 
raised,  or  their  leases  canceled,  and  presently  Port 
Agnew  knew  them  no  more.  He  paid  fair  wages,  worked 
his  men  nine  hours,  and  employed  none  but  naturalized 
Americans,  with  a  noticeable  predilection  for  those  of 
Scotch  nativity  or  ancestry. 

Strikes  or  lockouts  were  unknown  in  Port  Agnew — 
likewise  saloons.  Unlike  most  sawmill  towns  of  that 
period,  Port  Agnew  had  no  street  in  which  children 
were  forbidden  to  play  or  which  mothers  taught  their 
daughters  to  avoid.  Once  an  I.  W.  W.  organizer  came 
to  town,  and  upon  being  ordered  out  and  refusing  to 
go,  The  Laird,  then  past  fifty,  had  ducked  him  in  the 
Skookum  until  he  changed  his  mind. 

32 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  33 

The  Tyee  Lumber  Company  owned  and  operated  the 
local  telephone  company,  the  butcher  shop,  the  general 
store,  the  hotel,  a  motion-picture  theater,  a  town  hall, 
the  bank,  and  the  electric-light-and-power  plant,  and 
with  the  profits  from  these  enterprises,  Port  Agnew  had 
paved  streets,  sidewalks  lined  with  handsome  electro 
liers,  and  a  sewer  system.  It  was  an  admirable  little 
sawmill  town,  and  if  the  expenses  of  maintaining  it  ex 
ceeded  the  income,  The  Laird  met  the  deficit  and  as 
sumed  all  the  worry,  for  he  wanted  his  people  to  be 
happy  and  prosperous  beyond  all  others. 

It  pleased  Hector  McKaye  to  make  an  occasion  of 
his  abdication  and  Donald's  accession  to  the  presidency 
of  the  Tyee  Lumber  Company.  The  Dreamerie  was  not 
sufficiently  large  for  his  purpose,  however,  for  he 
planned  to  entertain  all  of  his  subjects  at  a  dinner  and 
make  formal  announcement  of  the  change.  So  he  gave 
a  barbecue  in  a  grove  of  maples  on  the  edge  of  the 
town.  His  people  received  in  silence  the  little  speech 
he  made  them,  for  they  were  loath  to  lose  The  Laird. 
They  knew  him,  while  Donald  they  had  not  known  for 
five  years,  and  there  were  many  who  feared  that  the 
East  might  have  changed  him.  Consequently,  when  his 
father  called  him  up  to  the  little  platform  from  which 
he  spoke,  they  received  the  young  laird  in  silence  also. 

"Folks — my  own  home  folks,"  Donald  began,  "to 
day  I  formally  take  up  the  task  that  was  ordained  for 
me  at  birth.  I  am  going  to  be  very  happy  doing  for 
you  and  for  myself.  I  shall  never  be  the  man  my  father 
is;  but  if  you  will  take  me  to  your  hearts  and  trust 
me  as  you  have  trusted  him,  I'll  never  go  back  on  you, 
for  I  expect  to  live  and  to  die  in  Port  Agnew,  and, 
while  I  live,  I  want  to  be  happy  with  you.  I  would 


34  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

have  you  say  of  me,  when  I  am  gone,  that  I  was  the 
worthy  son  of  a  worthy  sire."  He  paused  and  looked 
out  over  the  eager,  upturned  faces  of  the  men,  women, 
and  children  whose  destinies  he  held  in  the  hollow  of  his 
hand.  "My  dear  friends,  there  aren't  going  to  be  any 
changes,"  he  finished,  and  stepped  down  off  the  plat 
form. 

From  the  heart  of  the  crowd  a  lumberjack  cried, 
"Ya-hoo-o-o-o-o !"  as  only  a  lusty  lumberjack  can  cry 
it.  "He's  a  chip  of  the  old  block!"  cried  another,  and 
there  were  cheers  and  some  tears  and  a  general  rush 
forward  to  greet  the  new  master,  to  shake  his  hand,  and 
pledge  allegiance  to  him. 

When  the  reception  was  over,  old  Hector  took  charge 
of  the  homely  games  and  athletic  contests,  and  the  day'-s 
delights  culminated  in  a  log-burling  contest  in  the  Skoo- 
kum,  in  which  the  young  laird  participated.  When, 
eventually,  he  fell  in  the  river  and  was  counted  out, 
old  Hector  donned  his  son's  calked  boots  and,  with  a 
whoop  such  as  he  had  not  emitted  in  forty  years,  en 
tered  the  lists  against  the  young  fellows.  In  the  old 
days  in  the  Michigan  woods,  when  burling  was  consid 
ered  a  magnificent  art  of  the  lumberjack,  he  bad  been 
a  champion,  and  for  five  minutes  he  spun  his  log  until 
the  water  foamed,  crossing  and  recrossing  the  river 
and  winning  the  contest  unanimously.  From  the  bank, 
Mrs.  McKaye  and  his  daughters  watched  him  with  well- 
bred  amusement  and  secret  disapproval.  They  could 
never  forget,  as  he  could,  that  he  was  The  Laird  of 
Tyee;  they  preferred  more  dignity  in  the  head  of  the 
house. 

The  McKaye  family  drove  home  along  the  cliff  road 
at  sunset.  Young  Donald  paused  on  the  terrace  before 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  35 

entering1  the  house,  and,  stirred  by  some  half-forgot 
ten  memory,  he  glanced  across  the  bight  to  the  little 
white  house  far  below  on  the  Sawdust  Pile.  The  flag 
was  floating  from  the  cupola,  but  even  as  he  looked, 
it  came  fluttering  down. 

Donald  turned  toward  the  McKaye  flag.  It  was  still 
floating.  'The  old  order  changeth,"  he  soliloquized, 
and  hauled  it  down,  at  the  same  time  shouting  to  his 
father  within  the  house: 

"Hey,  dad ;  fire  the  sunset  gun  !'* 

The  Laird  pressed  the  button  and  the  cannon 
boomed. 

"We've  neglected  that  little  ceremony  since  you've 
been  away,"  he  remarked,  as  Donald  entered  the  room. 
"  'Other  times,  other  customs,'  I  dare  say." 

He  hurried  up-stairs  to  dress  for  dinner  (a  formal 
ity  which  he  disliked,  but  which  appeared  to  please  his 
wife  and  daughters),  and  Donald  took  his  father's 
binoculars  and  went  out  on  the  terrace.  It  had  oc 
curred  to  him  that  he  had  not  seen  old  Caleb  Brent 
and  Nan  at  the  barbecue,  and  he  wondered  why. 
Through  the  glasses,  he  could  make  out  the  figure  of  a 
woman  in  the  cupola  window,  and  she  was  watching 
him  through  a  long  marine  telescope. 

"There's  my  old  friend  Nan,  grown  to  womanhood," 
Donald  soliloquized,  and  waved  his  arm  at  her.  Through 
the  glasses,  he  saw  her  wave  back  at  him. 


VI 


THE  morning  after  the  barbecue,  Donald 
reported  at  eight  o'clock  to  his  father's  faithful 
old   general   manager,   Andrew   Daney.      Daney    had 
grown  gray  in  his  father's  service,  and  it  was  no  part  of 
Donald's  plans  to  assign  him  to  a  back  seat. 

"Well,  Mr.  Daney,"  he  inquired  affably,  "what  are 
your  plans  for  the  new  hired  man?" 

Old  Daney  looked  up  quizzically. 

"You  do  the  planning  here,  Don,"  he  replied. 

"You  heard  me  say  yesterday  that  there  would  be  no 
changes,  Mr.  Daney.  Of  course,  I  haven't  grown  up 
in  Port  Agnew  without  learning  something  of  my  herit 
age,  but,  in  view  of  the  fact  that  I  still  have  consider 
able  to  learn,  suppose  you  indicate  just  where  I  ought 
to  start." 

Daney  was  pleased  at  a  deference  he  had  not  antici 
pated. 

"Start  in  the  woods,"  he  replied.  "That's  where 
your  daddy  started.  Felling  timber  and  handling  it  is 
rather  a  fine  art,  Don.  I'd  wrestle  logs  for  a  month  and 
follow  them  down  the  Skookum  to  the  log  boom.  Then 
I'd  put  in  six  months  in  the  mill  and  six  more  in  the 
factory,  following  it  with  three  months  on  the  dock, 
tallying,  and  three  months  of  a  hand-shaking  tour  out 
among  the  trade.  After  that,  you  may  sit  in  .it  your 
father's  desk,  and  I'll  gradually  break  you  in  to  his 
job." 

36 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  37 

"That's  a  grand  idea,  and  I'll  act  on  it,"  Donald 
declared. 

"Well,  it's  too  late  to  act  on  it  to-day,  Don.  The 
up-river  launch  to  the  logging-camp  left  at  seven 
o'clock.  However,  I  have  a  job  for  you.  We  really 
need  the  Sawdust  Pile  for  an  extension  of  our  drying- 
yard.  Our  present  yard  lies  right  under  the  lee  of 
that  ridge  of  which  Tyee  Head  is  an  extension,  and  it's 
practically  noon  before  the  sun  gets  a  fair  chance  at  it. 
The  Sawdust  Pile  gets  the  sun  all  day  long,  and  the 
winds  have  an  uninterrupted  sweep  across  it.  We  can 
dry  our  cedar  decking  there  in  half  the  time  it  requires 
now." 

"But  the  Sawdust  Pile  is " 

"A  rat's  nest,  Don.  There  are  a  number  of  other 
shacks  there  now — some  Greek  fishermen,  a  negro,  and 
a  couple  of  women  from  the  overflow  of  Tyee.  It  ought 
to  be  cleaned  out." 

"I  noticed  those  shacks  last  night,  Mr.  Daney,  and  I 
agree  with  you  that  they  should  go.  But  I  haven't  the 
heart  to  run  old  Caleb  Brent  off  the  Sawdust  Pile.  I 
gave  it  to  him,  you  know." 

"Well,  let  Brent  stay  there.  He's  too  old  and  crip 
pled  with  rheumatism  to  attend  to  his  truck-garden  any 
more;  so  if  you  leave  him  the  space  for  his  house  and 
a  chicken-yard,  he'll  be  satisfied.  In  fact,  I  have  dis 
cussed  the  proposition  with  him,  and  he  is  agree 
able." 

"Why  did  dad  permit  those  other  people  to  crowd 
him,  Mr.  Daney?" 

"While  your  father  was  in  Europe  with  you,  they 
horned  in,  claimed  a  squatter's  right,  and  stood  pat. 
Old  Brent  was  defenseless,  and  while  the  boys  from  the 


38  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

mill  would  have  cleaned  them  out  if  I  had  given  the 
word,  the  Greeks  and  the  negro  were  defiant,  and  it 
meant  bloodshed.  So  I  have  permitted  the  matter  to 
rest  until  your  father's  return." 

Donald  reached  for  his  hat. 

"Caleb  Brent's  squatter-right  to  that  Sawdust  Pile 
is  going  to  be  upheld,"  he  declared.  "I'll  clean  that 
colony  out  before  sunset,  or  they'll  clean  me." 

"I'd  proceed  cautiously  if  I  were  you,  Don.  They 
have  a  host  of  friends  up  in  Darrow,  and  we  mustn't 
precipitate  a  feud." 

"I'm  going  over  now  and  serve  notice  on  them  to 
vacate  immediately."  He  grinned  at  old  Daney.  "A 
negro,  a  handful  of  Greeks,  and  those  unfortunate 
women  can't  bluff  the  boss  of  Port  Agnew,  Mr.  Daney." 

"They  tell  me  there's  a  blind  pig  down  there,  also." 

"It  will  not  be  there  after  to-day,"  Donald  answered 
lightly,  and  departed  for  the  Sawdust  Pile. 

As  he  came  up  to  the  gate  in  the  neat  fence  Caleb 
Brent  had  built  across  the  Sawdust  Pile  nine  years  be 
fore,  a  baby  boy,  of  perhaps  three  years  of  age,  rose 
out  of  the  weeds  in  which  he  had  been  playing  and  re 
garded  the  visitor  expectantly. 

"Hello,  bub!"  the  young  laird  of  Tyee  greeted  the 
child. 

"Hello!"  came  the  piping  answer.  "Are  you  my 
daddy?" 

"Why,  no,  Snickelfritz."  He  ran  his  fingers  through 
the  tot's  golden  hair.  "Don't  you  know  your  own 
daddy?" 

"I  haven't  any  daddy,"  the  child  drawled. 

"No?  Well,  that's  unfortunate."  Donald  stooped 
and  lifted  the  tike  to  his  shoulder,  marveling  the  while 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  39 

that  such  a  cherub  could  be  the  product  of  any  of  the 
denizens  of  the  Sawdust  Pile.  At  once,  the  boy's  arms 
went  round  his  neck  and  a  velvet  cheek  was  laid  close 
to  his.  "You're  an  affectionate  little  snooks,  aren't 
you?"  Donald  commented.  "Do  you  live  here?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Somebody's  been  teaching  you  manners.  Whose 
little  boy  are  you?" 

"Muwer's." 

"And  who  might  mother  be?" 

"Nan  Brent." 

"Yo-ho  !  So  you're  Nan  Brent's  boy  1  What's  your 
name?"  * 

"Donald  Brent." 

"No ;  that  isn't  it,  son.  Brent  is  your  mother's  name. 
Tell  me  your  father's  name." 

"Ain't  got  no  farver." 

"Well  then,  run  along  to  your  mother." 

He  kissed  the  child  and  set  him  down  just  as  a  young 
woman  came  down  the  sadly  neglected  shell  walk  from 
Caleb  Brent's  little  white  house.  Donald  opened  the 
gate  and  advanced  to  meet  her. 

"I'm  sure  you  must  be  Nan,"  he  said,  "although  I 
can't  be  certain.  I  haven't  seen  Nan  in  six  years." 

She  extended  her  hand. 

"Yes ;  I'm  Nan,"  she  replied,  "and  you're  Donald  Mc- 
Kaye.  You're  a  man  now,  but  somehow  you  haven't 
changed  greatly." 

"It's  fine  to  meet  you  again,  Nan."  He  shook  her 
hand  enthusiastically. 

She  smiled  a  little  sadly. 

"I  saw  you  at  colors  last  night,  Donald.    When  your 


40  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

flag  came  down  and  the  gun  was  fired,  I  knew  you'd 
remembered." 

"Were  you  glad?"  he  demanded,  and  immediately 
wondered  why  he  had  asked  such  a  childish  question. 

"Yes,  I  was,  Donald.  It  has  been  a  long  time  since 
• — since — the  gun  has  been  fired — for  me.  So  long  since 
we  were  children,  Donald." 

"You  weren't  at  the  barbecue  yesterday.  I  missed 
you  and  Caleb.  You  two  are  very  old  friends  of  mine, 
Nan.  Was  it  quite  loyal  of  you  to  stay  home?" 

"You're  the  only  person  that  missed  us,  Donald," 
she  answered,  with  just  the  suspicion  of  a  tremor  in  her 
sweet  voice.  "B.ut,  then,  we  are  accustomed  to  being 
left  out  of  things." 

He  made  no  effort  to  formulate  an  answer  to  this. 
Truth  does  not  require  an  answer.  Yet  he  was  sen 
sible  of  a  distinct  feeling  of  sympathy  for  her,  and, 
manlike,  he  decided  to  change  the  topic  of  conversa 
tion. 

"You  have  neighbors  on  the  Sawdust  Pile,  Nan." 

"Yes.     They  came  when  The  Laird  was  in  Europe." 

"They  would  never  have  dared  it  had  he  been  in 
Port  Agnew.  I'm  surprised  that  Andrew  Daney  per 
mitted  it.  I  had  thought  of  him  as  a  man  of  courage, 
but,  strange  to  say,  these  people  outgamed  him." 

"They  didn't  outgame  him,  Donald.  He  just  didn't 
care.  I — I — fancy  he  concluded  they  would  make 
agreeable  neighbors — for  me." 

"I'm  sorry,  Nan.  However,  I'm  the  new  laird  of 
Tyee,  and  I've  come  down  to  stage  an  eviction.  I 
didn't  know  of  this  state  of  affairs  until  this  morn- 
ing." 

She  smiled  a  little  wistfully  and  bitterly. 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  41 

"I  had  flattered  myself,  Donald,  you  had  called  to 
visit  your  old  friends  instead.  When  you  waved  at  me 
last  night,  I — oh,  you  can't  realize  how  happy  it  made 
me  to  know  that  you  had  noticed  me — that  you  really 
were  big  enough  to  be  the  big  man  of  Port  Agnew.  And 
I  thought  perhaps  you  would  come  because  of  that." 

He  smiled  tolerantly  upon  her. 

"Something  has  occurred  to  make  you  bitter,  Nan. 
You're  not  like  the  girl  I  used  to  know  before  I  went 
away  to  school.  If  it  will  help  to  restore  me  to  your 
previous  good  opinion,  however,  please  believe  that  when 
I  waved  at  you  last  night,  simultaneously  I  made  up  my 
mind  to  make  an  early  visit  to  the  Sawdust  Pile.  The 
discovery  that  these  cattle  have  intruded  upon  you  and 
your  old  father,  because  you  were  unable  to  defend 
yourselves  and  no  one  in  Port  Agnew  would  defend  you, 
merely  hastened  my  visit.  I  couldn't  in  decency  come 
any  earlier;  could  I,  Nan?  It's  just  half  after  eight. 
And  if  you're  going  to  keep  me  standing  at  the  gate, 
as  if  I  were  a  sewing-machine  agent  instead  of  a  very 
old  friend,  I  may  conclude  to  take  offense  and  regret 
that  I  called." 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry !  Please  forgive  me,  Donald.  I'm  so 
much  alone — so  very  lonely — I  suppose  I  grow  sus 
picious  of  people  and  their  motives." 

"Say  no  more  about  it,  Nan.  May  I  come  in,  then,  to 
greet  Caleb  and  your  husband?" 

"Father  is  in  the  house.  I'll  call  him  out,  Donald. 
As  for  my  husband — "  She  hesitated,  glanced  out 
across  the  bight,  and  then  resolutely  faced  him.  "You 
cannot  have  heard  all  of  the  town  gossip,  then?" 

"I  hadn't  even  heard  of  your  marriage.  The  first  I 
knew  of  it  was  when  his  little  nibs  here  hailed  me,  and 


42  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

asked  me  if  I  was  his  father.  Then  he  informed  me 
he  was  your  boy.  He's  a  lovely  child,  Nan,  and  I  have 
been  the  recipient  of  some  of  his  extremely  moist 
kisses." 

She  realized  that  he  was  too  courteous  to  ask  whether 
her  husband  was  dead  or  if  there  had  been  a  divorce. 

"I'm  rather  glad  you  haven't  heard,  Donald,"  she 
replied  evenly.  "I  much  prefer  to  tell  you  myself ;  then 
you  will  understand  why  I  cannot  invite  you  into  our 
house,  and  why  you  must  not  be  seen  talking  to  me  here 
at  the  gate.  I  am  not  married.  I  have  never  been 
married.  My  baby's  name  is — Brent,  and  I  call  him 
Donald,  after  the  only  male  human  being  that  has  ever 
been  truly  kind  to  my  father  and  me." 

"Ah,"  said  Donald  quietly,  "so  that's  why  he  misses 
his  father  and  appears  to  want  one  so  very  much." 

She  gazed  forlornly  out  to  sea  and  answered  with  a 
brief  nod.  Seemingly  she  had  long  since  ceased  to  be 
tragic  over  her  pitiful  tragedy. 

"Well,"  he  replied  philosophically,  "life  is  quite  filled 
with  a  number  of  things,  and  some  of  them  make  for 
great  unhappiness."  He  stooped  and  lifted  the  baby 
in  his  great  arms.  "You're  named  after  me,  sonny ;  so 
I  think  I'll  try  to  fill  the  gap  and  make  you  happy. 
Do  you  mind,  Nan,  if  I  try  my  hand  at  foster-father 
ing?  I  like  children.  This  little  man  starts  life  under 
a  handicap,  but  I'll  see  to  it  that  he  gets  his  chance 
in  life — far  from  Port  Agnew,  if  you  desire."  She 
closed  her  eyes  in  sudden  pain  and  did  not  answer. 
"And  whatever  your  opinion  on  the  matter  may  be, 
Nan,"  he  went  on,  "even  had  I  known  yesterday  of  your 
sorrow,  I  should  have  called  to-day  just  the  same." 

"You  call  it  my  'sorrow !' "  she  burst  forth  passion- 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  43 

ately.  "Others  call  it  my  trouble — my  sin — my  dis 
grace." 

"And  what  does  Caleb  call  it,  Nan?" 

"He  doesn't  call  it,  Donald.  It  hasn't  appeared  to 
make  any  difference  with  him.  I'm  still — his  little' 
girl." 

"Well,  I  cannot  regard  you  as  anything  but  a  little 
girl — the  same  little  girl  that  used  to  help  Caleb  and 
me  sail  the  sloop.  I  don't  wish  to  know  anything  about 
your  sorrow,  or  your  trouble,  or  your  disgrace,  or  your 
sin,  or  whatever  folks  may  choose  to  call  it.  I  just 
want  you  to  know  that  I  know  that  you're  a  good 
woman,  and  when  the  spirit  moves  me — which  will  be 
frequently,  now  that  I  have  this  young  man  to  look 
after — I  shall  converse  with  you  at  your  front  gate 
and  visit  you  and  your  decent  old  father  in  this  little 
house,  and  be  damned  to  those  that  decry  it.  I  am  the 
young  laird  of  Tyee.  My  father  raised  me  to  be  a 
gentleman,  and,  by  the  gods,  I'll  be  one!  Now,  Nan, 
take  the  boy  and  go  in  the  house,  because  I  see  a  ras 
cally  negro  in  the  doorway  of  that  shack  yonder,  and  I 
have  a  matter  to  discuss  with  him.  Is  that  white  woman 
his  consort?" 

Nan  nodded  again.  She  could  not  trust  herself  to 
speak,  for  her  heart  was  full  to  overflowing. 

"Come  here — you !"  Donald  called  to  the  negro.  The 
fellow  slouched  forth  defiantly.  He  was  a  giant  mulat 
to,  and  his  freckled  face  wore  an  evil  and  contemptuous 
grin. 

"I'm  Donald  McKaye,"  Donald  informed  him.  "I'm 
the  new  laird  of  Tyee.  I  want  you  and  that  woman  to 
pack  up  and  leave." 

"How  soon,  boss?" 


44  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

"Immediately."  Anticipating  a  refusal,  Donald 
stepped  closer  to  the  mulatto  and  looked  him  sternly  in 
the  eye. 

"We-11,  is  dat  so?"  the  yellow  rascal  drawled.  "So 
youh-alPs  de  new  la'rd,  eh?  Well,  ah'm  de  king  o'  de 
Sawdust  Pile,  an*  mah  house  is  man  castle.  Git  dat, 
Mistah  La'rd?" 

Donald  turned  toward  Nan. 

"I'm  going  to  have  .trouble  here,  Nan.  Please  go  in 
the  house." 

"Proceed,9*  she  replied  simply.  "I  have  a  most  un 
womanly  and  unladylike  desire  to  see  that  beast  man 
handled." 

Donald  turned,  in  time  to  go  under  a  sizzling  right- 
hand  blow  from  the  mulatto  and  come  up  with  a  right 
uppercut  to  the  ugly,  freckled  face  and  a  left  rip  to  the 
mulatto's  midriff.  The  fellow  grunted,  and  a  spasm 
of  pain  crossed  his  countenance.  "You  yellow  dog!" 
Donald  muttered,  and  flattened  his  nose  far  flatter  than 
his  mammy  had  ever  wiped  it.  The  enemy  promptly 
backed  away  and  covered ;  a  hearty  thump  in  the  solar 
plexus  made  him  uncover,  and  under  a  rain  of  blows 
on  the  chin  and  jaw,  he  sprawled  unconscious  on  the 
ground. 

Donald  left  him  lying  there  and  stepped  to  the  door 
of  the  shack.  The  frightened  drab  within  spat  curses 
at  him. 

"Pack  and  go !"  he  ordered.  "Within  the  hour,  I'm 
going  to  purge  the  Sawdust  Pile  with  fire;  if  you  stay 
in  the  house,  you'll  burn  with  it." 

She  was  ready  in  ten  minutes.  Three  more  of  her 
kind  occupying  an  adjacent  shack  begged  to  be  allowed 
time  in  which  to  load  their  personal  possessions  in  an 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  45 

express-wagon.  The  four  Greeks  were  just  about  to  set 
out  for  a  day's  fishing,  but,  having  witnessed  the  defeat 
of  the  mulatto  bully,  the  fever  of  the  hegira  seized  them 
also.  They  loaded  their  effects  in  the  fishing-launch, 
and  chugged  away  up  river  to  Darrow,  crying  curses 
upon  the  young  laird  of  Tyee  and  promising  reprisal. 

Donald  waited  until  the  last  of  the  refugees  had  de 
parted  before  setting  fire  to  the  shacks.  Then  he  stood 
by  old  Caleb  Brent's  house,  a  circle  of  filled  buckets 
around  him,  and  watched  in  case  the  wind  should  sud- 
denty  shift  and  shower  sparks  upon  the  roof.  In  half 
an  hour  the  Sawdust  Pile  had  reverted  to  its  old  status 
and  a  throng  of  curious  townspeople  who,  attracted  by 
the  flames  and  smoke,  had  clustered  outside  Caleb 
Brent's  gate  to  watch  Donald  at  work,  finally  despaired 
of  particulars  and  scattered  when  they  saw  Donald  and 
Nan  Brent  enter  the  house. 

Caleb  Brent,  loking  twenty  years  older  than  when 
Donald  had  seen  him  last,  sat  in  an  easy  chair  by  the 
window,  gazing  with  lack-luster  eyes  out  across  the 
bight.  He  was  hopelessly  crippled  with  rheumatism, 
and  his  sea-blue  eyes  still  held  the  same  lost-dog  wist- 
fulness. 

"Hello,  Caleb!"  Donald  greeted  him  cordially.  "I've 
just  cleaned  up  the  Sawdust  Pile  for  you.  You're  back 
in  undisputed  possession  again." 

He  shook  hands  with  old  Caleb  and  sat  down  in  a 
chair  which  Nan  drew  up  for  him. 

"It's  good  of  you  to  call,  Mr.  Donald,"  the  old  man 
piped.  "But  isn't  that  just  like  him,  Nan?"  he  de 
manded.  "Many's  the  day — aye,  and  the  night,  too, 
for  of  late  the  nights  have  been  bad  here — we've  thought 
of  you,  sir,  and  wished  you  were  back  in  Port  Agnew. 


46  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

We  knew  what  would  happen  to  those  scoundrels  when 
Mr.  Donald  got  around  to  it."  And  he  laughed  the 
asthmatic,  contented  chuckle  of  the  aged  as  Nan  related 
briefly  the  story  of  Donald's  recent  activities. 

Their  conversation  which  followed  was  mostly  of  a 
reminiscent  character — recollections  of  boat-races  in 
the  bight,  fishing  excursions  off  the  coast,  clambakes, 
new  boats,  a  dog  which  Donald  had  given  Nan  when  he 
left  for  prep  school  and  which  had  since  died  of  old 
age.  And  all  the  while  Nan  Brent's  child  stood  by  Don 
ald's  knee,  gazing  up  at  him  adoringly. 

During  a  lull  in  the  conversation,  he  created  some 
slight  embarrassment  by  reiterating  his  belief  that  this 
strange  man  must  be  his  father,  and  appealed  to  his 
mother  for  verification  of  his  suspicions. 

Poor  child!  His  baby  mind  had  but  lately  grasped 
the  fact  that  for  him  there  was  something  missing  in 
the  scheme  of  life,  and,  to  silence  his  persistent  ques 
tioning,  Nan  had  told  him  that  some  day  his  father 
would  come  to  see  them ;  whereupon,  with  the  calm  faith 
of  innocence,  he  had  posted  himself  at  the  front  gate, 
to  be  in  position  to  receive  this  beloved  missing  one  when 
the  latter  should  appear.  Donald  skilfully  diverted  the 
child's  mind  from  this  all-consuming  topic  by  sliding 
the  boy  down  to  his  foot  and  permitting  him  to  swing 
gently  there. 

Presently  Nan  excused  herself,  for  the  purpose  of 
looking  after  the  embers  of  Donald's  recent  raid.  The 
instant  the  door  closed  behind  her,  old  Caleb  Brent 
looked  across  at  his  visitor. 

"You've  heard — of  course,  Mr.  Donald?"  he  queri.d, 
with  a  slight  inclination  of  his  head  toward  the  dcor 
through  which  his  daughter  had  disappeared. 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST     .  47 

"Yes,  Caleb.     Misfortune  comes  in  various  guises." 

"I  would  I  could  die,"  the  pitiful  old  fellow  whis 
pered.  "I  will,  soon,  but,  oh,  what  will  my  poor  darling 
do  then,  Mr.  Donald?  After  we  first  came  here,  I  was 
that  prosperous,  sir,  you  wouldn't  believe  it.  I  gave 
Nan  a  good  schooling,  piano  lessons,  and  fine  dresses. 
We  lived  well,  and  yet  we  put  by  a  thousand  dollars  in 
six  years.  But  that's  gone  now,  what  with  the  expenses 
when  the  baby  came,  and  my  sickness  that's  prevented 
me  from  working.  Thank  God,  sir,  I  have  my  three- 
quarter  pay.  It  isn't  much,  but  we're  rent-free,  and 
fuel  costs  us  nothing,  what  with  drift-wood  and  the 
waste  from  Darrow  that  comes  down  the  river.  Nan 
has  a  bit  of  a  kitchen-garden  and  a  few  chickens — so 
we  make  out.  But  when  I  die,  my  navy-pay  stops." 

He  paused,  too  profoundly  moved  by  consideration 
of  the  destitution  that  would  face  Nan  and  her  nameless 
boy  to  voice  the  situation  in  words.  But  he  looked  up 
at  Donald  McKaye,  and  the  latter  saw  again  that  wist 
ful  look  in  his  sea-blue  eyes — the  dumb  pleading  of  a 
kind  old  lost  dog.  He  thought  of  the  thirty-eight-foot 
sloop  old  Caleb  had  built  him — a  thing  of  beauty  and 
wondrously  seaworthy ;  or  the  sense  of  obligation  which 
had  caused  old  Brent  to  make  of  the  task  a  labor  of 
love;  of  the  long,  lazy,  happy  days  when,  with  Caleb 
and  Nan  for  his  crew,  he  had  raced  out  of  the  bight 
twenty  miles  to  sea  and  back  again,  for  the  sheer  de 
light  of  driving  his  lee  rail  under  until  Nan  cried  out  in 
apprehension. 

Poor,  sweet,  sad  Nan  Brent!  Donald  had  known 
her  through  so  many  years  of  gentleness  and  innocence 
— and  she  had  come  to  this !  He  was  consumed  with 
pity  for  her.  She  had  fallen,  but — there  were  depths  to 


48  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

which  destitution  and  desperation  might  still  drive  her, 
just  as  there  were  heights  to  which  she  might  climb 
again  if  some  half-man  would  but  give  her  a  helping 
hand. 

"Do  you  know  the  man,  Caleb?"  he  demanded  sud 
denly. 

"No,  I  do  not.  I  have  never  seen  him.  Nan  wrote 
me  when  they  were  married,  and  told  me  his  name,  of 


"Then  there  zvus  a  marriage,  Caleb?" 

"So  Nan  wrote  me." 

"Ah!     Has  Nan  a  marriage  certificate?" 

"I  have  never  seen  it.  Seems  their  marriage  wasn't 
legal.  The  name  he  gave  wasn't  his  own  ;  he  was  a  biga 
mist." 

"Then  Nan  knows  his  real  name." 

"Yes  ;  when  she  learned  that,  she  came  home." 

"But  why  didn't  she  prosecute  him,  Caleb?  She 
owed  that  to  herself  and  the  child  —  to  her  good  name 
and  -  " 

"She  had  her  reasons,  lad." 

"But  you  should  have  prosecuted  the  scoundrel, 
Caleb." 

"I  had  no  money  for  lawyers.  I  knew  I  was  going 
to  need  it  all  for  Nan  and  her  child.  And  I  thought 
her  reasons  sufficient,  Donald.  She  said  it  would  all 
come  out  right  in  the  end.  Maybe  it  will." 

"Do  you  mean  she  knowingly  accepted  the  inevitable 
disgrace  when  she  might  have  —  have  —  "  He  wanted  to 
add,  "proved  herself  virtuous,"  but,  somehow,  the  words 
would  not  come.  They  didn't  appear  to  him  to  be  quite 
fair  to  Nan. 

The  old  man  nodded. 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  49 

"Of  course  we  haven't  told  this  to  anybody  else,"  he 
hastened  to  add.  "  'Twould  have  been  useless.  They'd 
have  thought  it  a  lie." 

"Yes,  Caleb — a  particularly  clumsy  and  stupid  lie." 

Caleb  Brent  looked  up  suddenly  and  searched,  with 
an  alert  and  wistful  glance,  the  face  of  the  young  laird 
of  Tyee. 

"But  you  do  not  think  so,  do  you?"  he  pleaded. 

"Certainly  not,  Caleb.  If  Nan  told  you  that,  then 
she  told  you  the  truth." 

"Thank  you,  lad." 

"Poor  old  Caleb,"  Donald  soliloquized,  "you  find  it 
hard  to  believe  it  yourself,  don't  you?  And  it  does 
sound  fishy!" 

"I  don't  believe  it's  Nan's  fault,"  Donald  found  him 
self  saying  next.  "She  was  always  a  good  girl,  and  I 
can't  look  at  her  now  and  I  conceive  her  as  anything 
but  virtuous  and  womanly.  I'll  always  be  a  good  friend 
of  hers,  Caleb.  I'll  stand  back  of  her  and  see  that  she 
gets  a  square  deal — she  and  her  son.  When  you're 
gone,  she  can  leave  Port  Agnew  for  some  city  where 
she  isn't  known,  and  as  'Mrs.  Brent'  she  can  engage  in 
some  self-supporting  business.  It  always  struck  me  that 
Nan  had  a  voice." 

"She  has,  Mr.  Donald.  They  had  grand  opera  in 
Seattle,  and  I  sent  her  up  there  to  hear  it  and  having 
a  singing  teacher  hear  her  sing  'Alice,  Where  Art  Thou.' 
He  said  she'd  be  earning  a  thousand  dollars  a  night  in 
five  years,  Mr.  Donald,  if  somebody  in  New  York  could 
train  her.  That  was  the  time,"  he  concluded,  "that 
she  met  Mm!  He  was  rich  and,  I  suppose,  full  of  fine 
graces ;  he  promised  her  S.  career  if  she'd  marry  him,  and 
so  he  dazzled  the  child — she  was  only  eighteen — and 


50  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

she  went  to  San  Francisco  with  him.  She  says  there 
was  some  sort  of  marriage,  but  he  gave  her  no  such 
gift  as  I  gave  her  mother — a  marriage  certificate.  She 
wrote  me  she  was  happy,  and  asked  me  to  forgive  her 
the  lack  of  confidence  in  not  advising  with  me — and  of 
course  I  forgave  her,  Mr.  Donald.  But  in  three  months 
he  left  her,  and  one  night  the  door  yonder  opened  and 
Nan  come  in  and  put  her  arms  round  my  neck  and  held' 
me  tight,  with  never  a  tear — so  I  knew  she'd  cried  her 
fill  long  since  and  was  in  trouble."  He  paused  several 
seconds,  then  added,  "Her  mother  was  an  admiral's 
daughter — and  she  married  me !"  He  appeared  to  sug 
gest  this  latter  as  a  complete  explanation  of  woman's 
frailty. 

"The  world  is  small,  but  it  is  sufficiently  large  to  hide 
a  girl  from  the  Sawdust  Pile  of  Port  Agnew.  Of  course, 
Nan  cannot  leave  you  now,  but  when  you  leave  her, 
Caleb,  I'll  finance  her  for  her  career.  Please  do  not 
worry  about  it." 

"I'm  like  Nan,  sir,"  he  murmured.  "I'm  beyond  tears, 
or  I'd  weep,  Mr.  Donald.  God  will  reward  you,  sir.  1 
can't  begin  to  thank  you." 

"I'm  glad  of  that.  By  the  way,  who  is  towing  the 
garbage-barge  to  sea  nowadays?" 

"I  don't  know,  sir.  Mr.  Daney  hired  somebody  else 
and  his  boat  when  I  had  to  quit  because  of  my  sciatica." 

"Hereafter,  we'll  use  your  boat,  Caleb,  and  engage  a 
man  to  operate  it.  The  rental  will  be  ten  dollars  per 
trip,  two  trips  a  week,  eighty  dollars  a  month.  Cheap 
enough;  so  don't  think  it's  charity.  Here's  the  first, 
month's  rental  in  advance.  I'm  going  to  run  along 
now,  Caleb,  but  I'll  look  in  from  time  to  time,  and  if 
you  should  need  me  in  the  interim,  send  for  me." 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  51 

He  kissed  little  Don  Brent,  who  set  up  a  prodigious 
shriek  at  the  prospect  of  desertion  and  brought  his 
mother  fluttering  into  the  room.  He  watched  her  soothe 
the  youngster  and  then  asked: 

"Nan,  where  do  you  keep  the  arnica  now?  I  cut  my 
knuckles  on  that  yellow  rascal." 

She  raised  a  sadly  smiling  face  to  his. 

"Where  would  the  arnica  be — if  we  had  any,  Don 
ald?"  she  demanded. 

"Where  it  used  to  be,  I  suppose.  Up  on  that  shelf, 
inside  the  basement  of  that  funny  old  half-portion 
grandfather's  clock  and  just  out  of  reach  of  the  pen 
dulum." 

"You  do  remember,  don't  you?  But  it's  all  gone 
so  many  years  ago,  Donald.  We  haven't  had  a  boy 
around  to  visit  us  since  you  left  Port  Agnew,  you  know. 
I'll  put  some  tincture  of  iodine  on  your  knuckles,  how 
ever." 

"Do,  please,  Nan." 

A  little  later,  he  said: 

"Do  you  remember,  Nan,  the  day  I  stuck  my  finger 
into  the  cage  of  old  Mrs.  Biddle's  South  American  par 
rot  to  coddle  the  brute  and  he  all  but  chewed  it 
off?" 

She  nodded. 

"And  you  came  straight  here  to  have  it  attended  to, 
instead  of  going  to  a  doctor." 

"You  wept  when  you  saw  my  mangled  digit.  Re 
member,  Nan?  Strange  how  that  scene  persists  in  my 
memory!  You  were  so  sweetly  sympathetic  I  was 
quite  ashamed  of  myself." 

"That's  because  you  always  were  the  swc?test  boy 
in  the  world  and  I  was  only  the  garbage-man's  daugh- 


52  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

ter,"  she  whispered.  "There's  a  ridiculous  song  about 
the  garbage-man's  daughter.  I  heard  it  once,  in  vaude 
ville — in  San  Francisco." 

"If  I  come  over  some  evening  soon,  will  you  sing  for 
me,  Nan?" 

"I  never  sing  any  more,  Don." 

"Nobody  but  you  can  ever  sing  'Carry  Me  Back  to 
Old  Virginy'  for  me." 

"Then  I  shall  sing  it,  Don." 

"Thank  you,  Nan." 

She  completed  the  anointing  of  his  battle-scarred 
knuckles  with  iodine,  and,  for  a  moment,  she  held  his 
hand,  examining  critically  an  old  ragged  white  scar  on 
the  index-finger  of  his  right  hand.  And  quite  suddenly, 
to  his  profound  amazement,  she  bent  her  head  and 
swiftly  implanted  upon  that  old  scar  a  kiss  so  light,  so 
humble,  so  benignant,  so  pregnant  of  adoration  and 
gratitude  that  he  stood  before  her  confused  and  inquir 
ing. 

"Such  a  strong,  useful  big  hand !"  she  whispered.  "It 
has  been  raised  in  defense  of  the  sanctity  of  my  home 
— and  until  you  came  there  was  'none  so  poor  to  do  me 
reverence.'  " 

He  looked  at  her  with  sudden,  new  interest.  Her 
action  had  almost  startled  him.  As  their  eyes  held  each 
other,  he  was  aware,  with  a  force  that  was  almost  a 
shock,  that  Nan  Brent  was  a  most  unusual  woman. 
She  was  beautiful;  yet  her  physical  beauty  formed 
the  least  part  of  her  attractiveness,  perfect  as  that 
beauty  was.  Instinctively,  Donald  visualized  her  as  a 
woman  with  brains,  character,  nobility  of  soul;  there 
was  that  in  her  eyes,  in  the  honesty  and  understanding 
with  which  they  looked  into  his,  that  compelled  him,  in 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  53 

that  instant,  to  accept  without  reservation  and  for  all 
time  the  lame  and  halting  explanation  of  her  predica 
ment  he  had  recently  heard  from  her  father's  lips.  He 
longed  to  tell  her  so.  Instead,  he  flushed  boyishly  and 
said,  quite  impersonally: 

"Yes;  you're  beautiful  as  women  go,  but  that's  not 
the  right  word  to  express  you.  Physically,  you  might 
be  very  homely,  but  if  you  were  still  Nan  Brent  you 
would  be  sweet  and  compelling.  You  remind  me  of  a 
Catholic  chapel ;  there's  always  one  little  light  within 
that  never  goes  out,  you  know.  So  that  makes  you  more 
than  beautiful.  Shall  I  say — glorious?" 

She  smiled  at  him  with  her  wistful,  sea-blue  eyes — a 
smile  tender,  maternal,  all-comprehending.  She  knew 
he  was  not  seeking  to  flatter  her,  that  the  wiles,  the 
artifices,  the  pretty  speeches  of  the  polished  man  of  the 
world  were  quite  beyond  him. 

"Still  the  same  old  primitive  pal,"  she  murmured 
softly ;  "still  thinking  straight,  talking  straight,  acting 
straight,  and — dare  I  say  it,  Donald? — seeing  straight. 
I  repeat,  you  always  were  the  sweetest  boy  in  the  world 
• — and  there  is  still  so  much  of  the  little  boy  about  you." 
Her  hand  fluttered  up  and  rested  lightly  on  his  arm. 
"I'll  not  forget  this  day,  my  dear  friend." 

It  was  characteristic  of  him  that,  having  said  that 
which  was  uppermost  in  his  mind,  he  should  remember 
his  manners  and  thank  her  for  dressing  his  knuckles. 
Then  he  extended  his  hand  in  farewell. 

"When  you  come  again,  Donald,"  she  pleaded,  as  he 
took  her  hand,  "will  you  please  bring  me  some  books? 
They're  all  that  can  keep  me  sane — and  I  do  not  go  to 
the  public  library  any  more.  I  have  to  run  the  gantlet 
of  so  many  curious  eyes." 


54  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

''How  long  is  it  since  you  have  been  away  from  the 
Sawdust  Pile?" 

"Since  before  my  baby  came." 

He  was  silent  a  minute,  pondering  this.  Since  old 
Caleb  had  become  house-ridden,  then,  she  had  been 
without  books.  He  nodded  assent  to  her  request. 

"If  I  do  not  say  very  much,  you  will  understand, 
nevertheless,  how  grateful  I  am,"  she  continued.  "To 
day,  the  sun  has  shone.  Whatever  your  thoughts  may 
have  been,  Donald,  you  controlled  your  face  and  you 
were  decent  enough  not  to  say,  'Poor  Nan.' ' 

He  had  no  answer  to  that.  He  was  conscious  only  of 
standing  helpless  in  the  midst  of  a  terrible  tragedy. 
His  heart  ached  with  pity  for  her,  and  just  for  old 
sake's  sake,  for  a  tender  sentiment  for  lost  youth  and 
lost  happiness  of  the  old  comradely  days  when  she  had 
been  Cinderella  and  he  the  prince,  he  wished  that  he- 
might  take  her  in  a  fraternal  embrace  and  let  her  cry 
out  on  his  breast  the  agony  that  gnawed  at  her  heart 
like  a  worm  in  an  apple.  But  it  was  against  his  code 
to  indicate  to  her  by  word  or  action  that  she  was  less 
worthy  than  other  women  and  hence  to  be  pitied,  for  it 
seemed  to  him  that  her  burden  was  already  sufficient. 

"Let  me  know  if  those  people  return  to  annoy  you, 
Nan,"  was  all  he  said.  Then  they  shook  hands  very 
formally,  and  the  young  laird  of  Tyee  returned  to  the 
mill-office  to  report  to  Andrew  Daney  that  the  Sawdust 
Pile  had  been  cleaned  out,  but  that,  for  the  present  at 
least,  they  would  get  along  with  the  old  drying-yard. 

Somehow,  the  day  came  to  an  end,  and  he  went  home 
with  tumult  in  his  soul. 


vn 


AN  unerring  knowledge  of  men  in  general  and  of  his 
own  son  in  particular  indicated  to  Hector  Mc- 
Kaye,  upon  the  instant  that  the  latter  appeared  at  the 
family  dinner-table,  that  his  son's  first  day  in  command 
had  had  a  sobering  effect  upon  that  young  man.  He 
had  gone  forth  that  morning  whistling,  his  eyes  alert 
with  interest  and  anticipation ;  and  a  feeling  of  pro 
found  contentment  had  come  to  The  Laird  as  he 
watched  Donald  climb  into  his  automobile  and  go  brisk 
ly  down  the  cliff  highway  to  Port  Agnew.  Here  was 
no  unwilling  exile,  shackled  by  his  father's  dollars  to  a 
backwoods  town  and  condemned  to  labor  for  the  term 
of  his  natural  life.  Gladly,  eagerly,  it  seemed  to  Hec 
tor  McKaye,  his  son  was  assuming  his  heritage,  casting 
aside,  without  one  longing  backward  glance,  a  brighter, 
busier,  and  more  delightful  world. 

Although  his  son's  new  arena  of  action  was  beautiful 
and  The  Laird  loved  it  with  a  passionate  love,  he  was 
sufficiently  imaginative  to  realize  that,  in  Port  Agnew, 
Donald  might  not  be  as  happy  as  had  been  his  father. 
Old  Hector  was  sufficiently  unselfish  to  have  harbored 
no  resentment  had  this  been  so.  It  had  been  his  one 
anxiety  that  Donald  might  take  his  place  in  the  busi 
ness  as  a  matter  of  duty  to  himself  rather  than  as  a 
duty  to  his  father,  and  because  he  had  found  his  life- 
work  and  was  approaching  it  with  joy,  for  The  Laird 
was  philosopher  enough  to  know  that  labor  without  joy 


56  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

is  as  dead-sea  fruit.  Indeed,  before  the  first  day  of 
his  retirement  had  passed,  he  had  begun  to  suspect  that 
joy  without  labor  was  apt  to  be  something  less  than  he 
had  anticipated. 

The  Laird  observed  in  his  son's  eyes,  as  the  latter 
took  his  place  at  table,  a  look  that  had  not  been  there 
when  Donald  left  for  the  mill  that  morning.  His  usual 
ly  pleasant,  "Evening,  folks!"  was  perfunctory  to 
night  ;  he  replied  briefly  to  the  remarks  addressed  to  him 
by  his  mother  and  sisters ;  the  old  man  noted  not  less 
than  thrice  a  slight  pause  with  the  spoon  half-way  to 
his  mouth,  as  if  his  son  considered  some  problem  more 
important  than  soup.  Mrs.  McKaye  and  the  girls 
chattered  on,  oblivious  of  these  slight  evidences  of  men 
tal  perturbation,  but  as  The  Laird  carved  the  roast  (he 
delighted  in  carving  and  serving  his  family,  and  was  old- 
fashioned  enough  to  insist  upon  his  right,  to  the  dis 
tress  of  the  girls,  who  preferred  to  have  the  roast 
carved  in  the  kitchen  and  served  by  the  Japanese  but 
ler),  he  kept  a  contemplative  eye  upon  his  son,  and 
presently  saw  Donald  heave  a  slight  sigh. 

"Here's  a  titbit  you  always  liked,  son !"  he  cried 
cheerfully,  and  deftly  skewered  from  the  leg  of  lamb 
the  crisp  and  tender  tail.  "Confound  you,  Donald;  I 
used  to  eat  these  fat,  juicy  little  lamb's  tails  while  you 
were  at  college,  but  I  suppose,  now,  I'll  have  to  sur 
render  that  prerogative  along  with  the  others."  In  an 
effort  to  be  cheerful  and  distract  his  son's  thoughts,  he 
attempted  this  homely  badinage. 

"I'll  give  you  another  little  tale  in  return,  dad," 
Donald  replied,  endeavoring  to  meet  his  father's  cheer 
ful  manner.  "While  we  were  away,  °  colony  of  riff 
raff  from  Darrow  jumped  old  Caleb  Brent's  Sawdust 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  57 

Pile,  and  Daney  was  weak  enough  to  let  them  get  away 
with  it.  I'm  somewhat  surprised.  Daney  knew  your 
wishes  in  the  matter ;  if  he  had  forgotten  them,  he 
might  have  remembered  mine,  and  if  he  had  forgot 
ten  both,  it  would  have  been  the  decent  thing  to  have 
thrown  them  out  on  his  own  responsibility." 

So  that  was  what  lay  at  the  bottom  of  his  son's 
perturbation !  The  Laird  was  relieved. 

"Andrew's  a  good  man,  but  he  always  needed  a  lead 
er,  Donald,"  he  replied.  "If  he  didn't  lack  initiative, 
he  would  have  been  his  own  man  long  ago.  I  hope  you 
did  not  chide  him  for  it,  lad." 

"No ;  I  did  not.  He's  old  enough  to  be  my  father, 
and,  besides,  he's  been  in  the  Tyee  Lumber  Company 
longer  than  I.  I  did  itch  to  give  him  a  rawhiding, 
though." 

"I  saw  smoke  and  excitement  down  at  the  Sawdust 
Pile  this  morning,  Donald.  I  dare  say  you  rectified 
Andrew's  negligence." 

"I  did.  The  Sawdust  Pile  is  as  clean  as  a  hound's 
tooth." 

Jane  looked  up  from  her  plate. 

"I  hope  you  sent  that  shameless  Brent  girl  away, 
too,"  she  announced,  with  the  calm  attitude  of  one 
whose  own  virtue  is  above  reproach. 

Donald  glared  at  her. 

"Of  course  I  did  not !"  he  retorted.  "How  thorough 
ly  unkind  and  uncharitable  of  you,  Jane,  to  hope  I 
would  be  guilty  of  such  a  cruel  and  unmanly  ac 
tion  !" 

The  Laird  waved  his  carving-knife. 

"Hear,  hear!"  he  chuckled.  "Spoken  like  a  man, 
my  son.  Jane,  my  dear,  if  I  were  you,  I  wouldn't 


58  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

press   this  matter  further.      It's   a   delicate  subject." 

"I'm  sure  I  do  not  see  why  Jane  should  not  be  free 
to  express  her  opinion,  Hector."  Mrs.  McKaye  felt  im 
pelled  to  fly  to  the  defense  of  her  daughter.  "You 
know  as  well  as  we  do,  Hector,  that  the  Brent  girl  is 
quite  outside  the  pale  of  respectable  society." 

"We  shall  never  agree  on  what  constitutes  'respect 
able  society,'  Nellie,"  The  Laird  answered  whimsically. 
"There  are  a  few  in  that  Seattle  set  of  yours  I  find  it 
hard  to  include  in  that  category." 

"Oh,  they're  quite  respectable,  father,"  Donald  pro 
tested. 

"Indeed  they  are,  Donald !  Hector,  you  amaze  me," 
Mrs.  McKaye  chided. 

"They  have  too  much  money  to  be  anything  else," 
Donald  added,  and  winked  at  his  father. 

"Tush,  tush,  lad!"  the  old  man  murmured  "We 
shall  get  nowhere  with  such  arguments.  The  world  has 
been  at  that  line  of  conversation  for  two  thousand 
years,  and  the  issue's  still  in  doubt.  Nellie,  wiJi  you 
have  a  piece  of  the  well-done?" 

"You  and  your  father  are  never  done  joining  forces 
against  me,"  Mrs.  McKaye  protested,  and  in  her  voice 
was  the  well-known  note  that  presaged  tears  should  she 
be  opposed  further.  The  Laird,  all  too  familiar  with 
this  truly  feminine  type  of  tyranny,  indicated  to  his 
son,  by  a  lightning  wink,  that  he  desired  the  conver 
sation  diverted  into  other  channels,  whereupon  Donald 
favored  his  mother  with  a  disarming  smile. 

"I'm  going  to  make  a  real  start  to-morrow  morning, 
mother,"  he  announced  brightly.  "I'm  going  in>  in  the 
woods  and  be  a  lumberjack  for  a  month.  Going  to  grow 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  59 

warts  on  my  hands  and  chew  tobacco  and  develop  into 
a  brawny  roughneck.'* 

"Is  that  quite  necessary?"  Elizabeth  queried,  with  a 
slight  elevation  of  her  eyebrows.  "I  understood  you 
were  going  to  manage  the  business." 

"I  am — after  I've  learned  it  thoroughly,  Lizzie." 

"Don't  call  me  'Lizzie,'"  she  warned  him  irritably. 

"Very  well,  Elizabeth." 

"In  simple  justice  to  those  people  from  Darrow  that 
you  evicted  from  the  Sawdust  Pile,  Don,  you  should 
finish  your  work  before  you  go.  If  they  were  not  fit 
to  inhabit  the  Sawdust  Pile,  then  neither  is  Nan  Brent. 
You've  got  to  play  fair."  Jane  had  returned  to  the 
attack. 

"Look  here,  Jane,"  her  brother  answered  seriously: 
"I  wish  you'd  forget  Nan  Brent.  She's  an  old  and  very 
dear  friend  of  mine,  and  I  do  not  like  to  hear  my 
friends  slandered." 

"Oh,  indeed!"  Jane  considered  this  humorous,  and 
indulged  herself  in  a  cynical  laugh. 

"Friend  of  his?"  Elizabeth,  who  was  regarded  in 
her  set  as  a  wit,  a  reputation  acquired  by  reason  of  the 
fact  that  she  possessed  a  certain  knack  for  adapting 
slang  humorously  (for  there  was  no  originality  to  her 
alleged  wit),  now  bent  her  head  and  looked  at  her 
brother  incredulously.  "My  word!  That's  a  rich 
dish." 

"Why,  Donald  dear,"  his  mother  cried  reproachfully, 
"surely  you  are  jesting!" 

"Not  at  all.  Nan  Brent  isn't  a  bad  girl,  even  if  she 
is  the  mother  of  a  child  born  out  of  wedlock.  She 
stays  at  home  and  minds  her  own  business,  and  lets 
others  mind  theirs." 


60  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

"Donald's  going  to  be  tragic.  See  if  he  isn't,"  Eliza 
beth  declared.  "Come  now,  old  dear  ;  if  Nan  Brent  isn't 
a  bad  woman,  just  what  is  your  idea  of  what  consti 
tutes  badness  in  a  woman?  It  would  be  interesting  to 
know  your  point  of  view." 

"Nan  Brent  was  young,  unsophisticated,  poor,  and 
trusting  when  she  met  this  fellow,  whoever  he  may  be.- 
He  wooed  her,  and  she  loved  him  —  or  thought  she  did, 
which  amounts  to  the  same  thing  until  one  discovers 
the  difference  between  thinking  and  feeling.  At  first, 
she  thought  she  was  married  to  him.  Later,  she  dis 
covered  she  was  not  —  and  then  it  was  too  late." 

"It  wouldn't  have  been  too  late  with  some  —  er  —  good 
people,"  The  Laird  remarked  meaningly. 

"In  other  words,"  Donald  went  on,  "Nan  Brent  found 
herself  out  on  the  end  of  a  limb,  and  then  the  world 
proceeded  to  saw  off  the  limb.  It  is  true  that  she  is  the 
mother  of  an  illegitimate  child,  but  if  that  child  was 
not  —  at  least  in  so  far  as  its  mother  is  concerned  — 
conceived  in  sin,  I  say  it  isn't  illegitimate,  and  that  its 
mother  is  not  a  bad  woman." 

"Granted  —  if  it's  true  ;  but  how  do  you  know  it  to  be 
true?"  Jane  demanded.  She  had  a  feeling  that  she 
was  about  to  get  the  better  of  her  brother  in  this  argu 
ment. 

"I  do  not  know  it  to  be  true,  Jane." 


"But  —  I  believe  it  to  be  true,  Jane." 

"Why?" 

"Because  Nan  told  her  father  it  was  true,  and  old 
Caleb  told  me  when  I  was  at  his  house  this  morning. 
So  I  believe  it.  And  I  knew  Nan  Brent  when  she  was 
a  young  girl,  and  she  was  sweet  and  lovely  and  virtu- 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  61 

ous.  I  talked  with  her  this  morning,  and  found  no 
reason  to  change  my  previous  estimate  of  her.  I  could 
only  feel  for  her  a  profound  pity." 

"  'Pity  is  akin  to  love,'  "  Elizabeth  quoted  gaily. 
"Mother,  keep  an  eye  on  your  little  son.  He'll  be  go 
ing  in  for  settlement-work  in  Port  Agnew  first  thing  we 
know." 

"Hush,  Elizabeth!"  her  mother  cried  sharply.  She 
was  highly  scandalized  at  such  levity.  The  Laird  salted 
and  peppered  his  food  and  said  nothing.  "Your  atti 
tude  is  very  manly  and  sweet,  dear,"  Mrs.  McKaye  con- 
•tinued,  turning  to  her  son,  for  her  woman's  intuition 
warned  her  that,  if  the  discussion  waxed  warmer,  The 
Laird  would  take  a  hand  in  it,  and  her  side  would  go 
down  to  inglorious  defeat,  their  arguments  flattened  by 
the  weight  of  Scriptural  quotations.  She  had  a  feeling 
that  old  Hector  was  preparing  to  remind  them  of  Mary 
Magdalen  and  the  scene  in  the  temple.  "I  would  much 
rather  hear  you  speak  a  good  word  for  that  unfortu 
nate  girl  than  have  you  condemn  her." 

"A  moment  ago,"  her  son  reminded  her,  with  some 
asperity,  for  he  was  sorely  provoked,  "you  were  de 
manding  the  right  of  free  speech  for  Jane,  in  order 
that  she  might  condemn  her.  Mother,  I  fear  me  you're 
not  quite  consistent." 

"We  will  not  discuss  it  further,  dearie.  It  is  not  a 
matter  of  such  importance  that  we  should  differ  to  the 
point  of  becoming  acrimonious.  Besides,  it's  a  queer 
topic  for  dinner-table  conversation." 

"So  say  we  all  of  us,"  Elizabeth  struck  in  laconically. 
"Dad,  will  you  please  help  me  to  some  of  the  well- 
done?" 

"Subjects,"   old  Hector  struck  in,  "which,  twenty 


62  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

years  ago,  only  the  family  doctor  was  supposed  to  be 
familiar  with  or  permitted  to  discuss  are  now  being 
agitated  in  women's  clubs,  books,  newspapers,  and  the 
public  schools.  You  can't  smother  sin  or  the  facts  of 
life  unless  they  occur  separately.  In  the  case  of  Nan 
Brent  they  have  developed  coincidently ;  so  we  find  it 
hard  to  regard  her  as  normal  and  human.'1 

"Do  you  condone  her  offense,  Hector?"  Mrs.  Mc- 
Kaye  demanded  incredulously. 

"I  am  a  firm  believer  in  the  sacredness  of  marriage. 
I  cannot  conceive  of  a  civilization  worth  while  with 
out  it,"  The  Laird  declared  earnestly.  "Nevertheless, 
while  I  know  naught  of  Nan  Brent's  case,  except  that 
which  is  founded  on  hearsay  evidence,  I  can  condone 
her  offense  because  I  can  understand  it.  She  might 
have  developed  into  a  far  worse  girl  than  it  appears 
from  Donald's  account  she  is.  At  least,  Nellie,  she  bore 
her  child  and  cherishes  it,  and,  under  the  rules  of  so 
ciety  as  we  play  it,  that  required  a  kind  of  courage 
in  which  a  great  many  girls  are  deficient.  Give  her 
credit  for  that." 

"A7>parently  she  has  been  frank/'  Elizabeth  answered 
him  coolly.  "On  the  other  hand,  father  McKayc,  her 
so-called  courage  may  hare  been  ignorance  or  apathy 
or  cowardice  or  indifference.  It  all  depends  on  her 
point  of  view." 

"I  disagree  with  mother  that  it  is  not  a  matter  of 
importance,"  Donald  persisted.  "It  is  a  matter  of 
supreme  importance  to  me  that  my  mother  arid  sisters 
should  not  feel  more  charity  toward  an  unfortunate 
member  of  their  sex;  and  I  happen  to  know  that  it  if 
a  matter  of  terrible  importance  to  Nan  Brent  that  in 
Port  Agnew  people  regard  her  as  unclean  and  look  at 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  63 

her  askance.  And  because  that  vacillating  old  Daney 
didn't  have  the  courage  to  fly  in  the  face  of  Port 
Agnew's  rotten  public  opinion,  he  subjected  Nan  Brent 
and  her  helpless  old  father  to  the  daily  and  nightly 
association  of  depraved  people.  If  he  should  dare  to 
say  one  word  against 

"Oh,  it  wasn't  because  Andrew  was  afraid  of  public 
opinion,  lad,"  Hector  McKaye  interrupted  him  dryly: 
"Have  you  no  power  o'  deduction  ?  *Twas  his  guid  wife 
that  stayed  his  hand,  and  well  I  know  it." 

"I  dare  say,  dad,"  Donald  laughed.  "Yes;  I  sup 
pose  I'll  have  to  forgive  him." 

"She'll  be  up  to-morrow,  my  dear,  to  discuss  the 
matter  with  you,"  The  Laird  continued,  turning  to  his 
wife.  "I  know  her  well.  Beware  of  expressing  an 
opinion  to  her."  And  he  bent  upon  all  the  women  of 
his  household  a  smoldering  glance. 

Apparently,  by  mutual  consent,  the  subject  was 
dropped  forthwith.  Donald's  silence  throughout  the 
remainder  of  the  meal  was  portentous,  however,  and 
Mrs.  McKaye  and  her  daughters  were  relieved  when,  the 
meal  finished  at  last,  they  could  retire  with  good  grace 
and  leave  father  and  son  to  their  cigars. 

"Doesn't  it  beat  hell?"  Donald  burst  forth  suddenly, 
apropos  of  nothing. 

"It  does,  laddie." 

"I  wonder  why?" 

The  Laird  was  in  a  philosophical  mood.  Ha  weighed 
his  answer  carefully. 

"Because  people  prefer  to  have  their  thoughts  manu 
factured  for  them ;  because  fanatics  and  hypocrites  have 
twisted  the  heart  out  of  the  Christian  religion  in  the 
grand  scramble  for  priority  in  the  'Who's  Holier  than 


64  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

Who'  handicap ;  because  people  who  earnestly  believe 
that  God  knows  their  inmost  thoughts  cannot  refrain 
from  being  human  and  trying  to  put  one  over  on 
Him."  He  smoked  in  silence  for  a  minute,  his  calm 
glance  on  the  ceiling.  "Now  that  you  are  what  you 
are,  my  son,"  he  resumed  reflectively,  "you'll  begin  to 
know  men  and  women.  They  who  never  bothered  to  seek 
your  favor  before  will  fight  for  it  now — they  do  the 
same  thing  with  God  Almighty,  seeking  to  win  his 
favor  by  outdoing  him  in  the  condemnation  of  sin.  A 
woman's  virtue,  lad,  is  her  main  barricade  against  the 
world;  in  the  matter  of  that,  women  are  a  close  cor 
poration.  Man,  how  they  do  stand  together!  Their 
virtue's  the  shell  that  protects  them,  and  when  one  of 
them  leaves  her  shell  or  loses  it,  the  others  assess  her 
out  of  the  close  corporation,  for  she's  a  minority  stock 
holder." 

"Mother  and  the  girls  are  up  to  their  eyebrows  in 
the  work  of  an  organization  in  Seattle  designed  to  sal 
vage  female  delinquents,"  Donald  complained.  "I  can't 
understand  their  attitude." 

Old  Hector  hooted. 

"They  don't  do  the  salvaging.  Not  a  bit  of  it !  That 
unpleasant  work  is  left  to  others,  and  the  virtuous  and 
^respectable  merely  pay  for  it.  Ken  ye  not,  boy,  'twas 
ever  the  habit  of  people  of  means  to  patronize  and  cod 
dle  the  lowly.  If  they  couldn't  do  that,  where  would  be 
the  fun  of  being  rich?  Look  in  the  Seattle  papers. 
Who  gets  the  advertising  out  of  a  charity  ball  if  it 
isn't  the  rich?  They  organize  it  and  they  put  it  over, 
with  the  public  paying  for  a  look  at  them,  and  they 
attending  the  ball  on  complimentary  tickets,  although 
I  will  admit  that  when  the  bills  are  paid  and  the  last 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  65 

shred  of  social  triumph  has  been  torn  from  the  affair, 
the  Bide-a-Wee  Home  for  Unmarried  Mothers  can  have 
what's  left — and  be  damned  to  them." 

Donald  laughed  quietly. 

"Scotty,  you're  developing  into  an  iconoclast.  If 
your  fellow  plutocrats  should  hear  you  ranting  in  that 
vein,  they'd  call  you  a  socialist." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  saying  there  aren't  a  heap  of  excep 
tions.  Many's  the  woman  with  a  heart  big  enough  to 
mother  the  world,  although,  when  all's  said  and  done; 
'tis  the  poor  that  are  kind  to  the  poor,  the  unfortunate 
that  can  appreciate  and  forgive  misfortune.  I'm  glad 
you  stood  by  old  Brent  and  his  girl,"  he  added  approv 
ingly. 

"I  intend  to  accord  her  the  treatment  which  a  gen 
tleman  always  accords  the  finest  lady  in  the  land,  dad." 

"Or  the  lowest,  my  son.  I've  noticed  that  kind  are 
not  altogether  unpopular  with  our  finest  gentlemen. 
Donald,  I  used  to  pray  to  God  that  I  wouldn't  raise  a 
fool.  I  feel  that  he's  answered  my  prayers,  but  if  you 
should  erer  turn  hypocrite,  I'll  start  praying  again." 


VIII 


DONALD  left  the  following  morning  in  the  auto 
mobile  for  the  logging-camps  up-river,  and  be 
cause  of  his  unfamiliarity  with  their  present  location, 
his  father's  chauffeur  drove  him  up.  He  was  to  be  gone 
all  week,  but  planned  to  return  Saturday  afternoon  to 
spend  Sunday  with  his  family. 

As  the  car  wound  up  the  narrow  river  road,  Donald 
found  himself  thinking  of  Nan  Brent  and  her  tragedy. 
Since  his  visit  to  the  Sawdust  Pile  the  day  before,  two 
pictures  of  her  had  persisted  in  his  memory,  every  de 
tail  of  both  standing  forth  distinctly. 

In  the  first,  she  was  a  shabby,  barelegged  girl  of  thir 
teen,  standing  in  the  cockpit  of  his  sloop,  holding  the 
little  vessel  on  its  course  while  he  and  old  Caleb  took 
a  reef  in  the  mainsail.  The  wilderness  of  gold  that  was 
her  uncared-for  hair  blew  behind  her  like  a  sunny 
burgee ;  her  sea-blue  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  mainsail,  out 
of  which  she  adroitly  spilled  the  wind  at  the  proper 
moment,  in  order  that  Donald  and  her  father  might 
haul  the  reef-points  home  and  make  them  fast.  In  his 
mind's  eye,  he  could  see  the  pulse  beating  in  her  throat 
as  they  prepared  to  come  about,  for  on  such  occasions 
she  always  became  excited ;  he  saw  again  the  sweet  curve 
of  her  lips  and  her  uplifted  chin;  he*  heard  again  her 
shrill  voice  crying,  "Ready,  about  !'*  and  saw  the  spckes 
spin  as  she  threw  the  helm  over  and  crouched  from  the 
swinging  boom,  although  it  cleared  her  pretty  head  by 

66 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  €7 

at  least  three  feet.  He  listened  again  to  her  elfin  laugh 
as  she  let  the  sloop  fall  off  sufficiently  to  take  the  lip 
of  a  comber  over  the  starboard  counter  and  force  Don 
ald  and  her  father  to  seek  shelter  from  the  spray  in  the 
lee  of  the  mainsail,  from  which  sanctuary,  with  more 
laughter,  she  presently  routed  them  by  causing  the 
spray  to  come  in  over  the  port  counter. 

The  other  picture  was  the  pose  in  which  he  had  seen 
her  the  morning  previous  at  the  Sawdust  Pile,  when, 
to  hide  her  emotion,  she  had  half  turned  from  him  and 
gazed  SP  forlornly  out  across  the  Bight  of  Tyee.  It 
had  struct  him  then,  with  peculiar  force,  that  Nan 
Brent  never  again  would  laugh  that  joyous  elfin  laugh 
of  other  days.  He  had  seen  the  pulse  beating  in  her 
creamy  neck  again — a  neck  fuller,  rounder,  glorious 
with  the  beauty  of  fully  developed  womanhood.  And 
the  riot  of  golden  hair  was  subdued,  with  the  exception 
of  little  wayward  wisps  that  whipped  her  white  tem 
ples.  Efer  eyes,  somewhat  darker  now,  like  the  sea  near 
the  horizon  after  the  sun  has  set  but  while  the  glory 
of  the  day  still  lingers,  were  bright  with  unshed  tears. 
The  sweet  curves  of  her  mouth  were  drawn  in  pain. 
The  northwest  trade-wind  blowing  across  the  bight  had 
whipped  her  gingham  dress  round  her,  revealing  the 
soft  curves  of  a  body,  the  beauty  of  which  motherhood 
had  intensified  rather  than  diminished.  Thus  she  had 
stood,  the  outcast  of  Port  Agnew,  and  beside  her  the 
little  badge  of  her  shame,  demanding  the  father  he  had 
never  known  and  would  never  see. 

The  young  laird  of  T}^ee  wondered  what  sort  of  man 
could  have  done  this  thing — this  monumental  wicked 
ness.  His  great  fists  were  clenched  as  there  welled 
within  him  a  black  rage  at  the  scoundrel  who  had  so 


68  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

wantonly  wrecked  that  little  home  on  the  Sawdust  Pile. 
He  wondered,  with  the  arrogance  of  his  years,  assuming 
unconsciously  the  right  of  special  privilege,  if  Nan 
would  ever  reveal  to  him  the  identity  of  the  villain. 
Perhaps,  some  day,  in  a  burst  of  confidence,  she  might. 
Even  if  she  did  tell  him,  what  could  he  do?  To  induce 
the  recreant  lover  to  marry  her  openly  and  legally 
would,  he  knew,  be  the  world's  way  of  "righting  the 
wrong"  and  giving  the  baby  a  name,  but  the  mischief 
had  been  done  too  long,  and  could  never  be  undone  un 
less,  indeed,  a  marriage  certificate,  with  proper  dating, 
could  be  flaunted  in  the  face  of  an  iconoclastic  and 
brutal  world.  Even  then,  there  would  remain  that 
astute  and  highly  virtuous  few  who  would  never  cease 
to  impart  in  whispers  the  information  that,  no  matter 
what  others  might  think,  they  had  their  doubts.  He 
was  roused  from  his  bitter  cogitations  by  the  chauffeur 
speaking. 

"This  is  Darrow,  Mr.  Donald.  I  don't  believe  you've 
seen  it,  have  you?  Darrow  put  in  his  mill  and  town 
while  you  were  away." 

Donald  looked  over  the  motley  collection  of  shacks 
as  the  automobile  rolled  down  the  single  unpaved 
street. 

"Filthy  hole,"  he  muttered.  "Hello!  There's  one 
of  my  late  friends  from  the  Sawdust  Pile." 

A  woman,  standing  in  the  open  door  of  i>  shanty  on 
the  outskirts  of  the  town  had  made  a  wry  face  and 
thrust  out  her  tongue  at  him.  He  lifted  his  hat  gravely, 
whereat  she  screamed  a  curse  upon  him.  An  instant 
later,  an  empty  beer-bottle  dropped  with  a  crash  in  the 
tonneau,  and  Donald,  turning,  beheld  in  the  door  of  a 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  69 

Darrow  groggery  one  of  the  Greek  fishermen  he  had  dis 
possessed. 

"Stop  the  car!"  Donald  commanded.  "I  think  that 
man  wants  to  discuss  a  matter  with  me." 

"Sorry,  sir,  but  I  don't  think  it's  wise  to  obey  you 
just  now,"  his  father's  chauffeur  answered,  and  trod  on 
the  accelerator.  "They  call  that  place  the  'Bucket  of 
Blood,'  and  you'll  need  something  more  than  your  fists 
if  you  expect  to  enter  there  and  come  out  under  your 
own  power/' 

"Very  well.     Some  other  time,  perhaps." 

"You  don't  appear  to  be  popular  in  Darrow,  Mr. 
Donald." 

"Those  people  left  the  Sawdust  Pile  yesterday — in  a 
hurry,"  Donald  explained.  "Naturally,  they're  still 
resentful." 

"They  were  making  quite  a  little  money  down  there, 
I  believe.  Polks  do  say  business  was  good,  and  when 
you  take  money  from  that  kind  of  cattle  you  make  a 
worth-while  enemy.  If  I  were  you,  sir,  I'd  watch  my 
step  in  dark  alleys,  and  I'd  carry  a  gun." 

"When  I  have  to  carry  a  grin  to  protect  myself  from 
vermin  like  that  mulatto  and  those  shifty  little  Greeks, 
I'll  be  a  few  years  older  than  I  am  now,  Henry.  How 
ever,  I  suppose  I'd  be  foolish  to  neglect  your  warning 
to  mind  my  step." 

He  spent  a  busy  week  in  the  woods,  and  it  was  his 
humor  to  spend  it  entirely  fetting  trees.  The  tough, 
experienced  old  choppers  welcomed  him  with  keen  inter 
est  and  played  freeze-out  each  night  in  the  bunk-houses 
to  see  which  one  should  draw  him  for  a  partner  next 
day;  for  the  choppers  worked  in  pairs,  likewise  the 
cross-cut  men.  Their  bucolic  sense  of  humor  impelled 


70  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

the  choppers  to  speed  up  when  they  found  themselves 
paired  with  the  new  boss,  for  it  would  have  been  a 
feather  in  the  cap  of  the  man  who  could  make  him  quit 
or  send  him  home  at  nightfall  "with  his  tail  dragging," 
as  the  woods  boss  expressed  it. 

Donald  sported  a  wondrous  set  of  blisters  at  the  close 
of  that  first  day,  but  after  supper  he  opened  them,  cov 
ered  them  with  adhesive  tape,  and  went  back  to  work 
next  morning  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  During 
those  five  days,  he  learned  considerable  of  the  art  of 
dropping  a  tree  exactly  where  he  desired  it,  and  bring 
ing  it  to  earth  without  breakage.  He  rode  down  to 
Port  Agnew  with  the  woods  crew  on  the  last  log-train 
Saturday  night,  walked  into  the  mill  office,  and  cashed 
in  his  time-slip  for  five  days*  work  as  a  chopper.  He 
had  earned  two  dollars  a  day  and  his  board  and  lodg 
ing.  His  father,  who  had  driven  into  town  to  meet  him, 
came  to  the  window  and  watched  him  humorously. 

"So  that's  the  way  you  elect  to  work  it,  eh?'*  he 
queried.  "I  told  Daney  to  pay  you  my  salary  when  I 
quit." 

"I  like  to  feel  that  I'm  earning  my  stipend,'*  Donald 
replied,  "so  it  pleases  me  to  draw  the  wages  of  the 
job  I'm  working  at.  When  I'm  thoroughly  acquainted 
with  all  the  jobs  in  the  Tyee  Lumber  Company,  or  at 
least  have  a  good  working  knowledge  of  them,  I  think 
I'll  be  a  better  boss." 

The  Laird  took  his  son*s  big  brown  hands  in  his  and 
looked  at  the  palms. 

"I  rather  think  I  like  it  so,"  he  answered.  "A  man 
whose  hands  have  never  bled  or  whose  back  has  never 
ached  is  a  poor  man  to  judge  a  labor  dispute.  'Twould 
improve  you  if  you  were  a  married  man  and  had  to  live 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  71 

on  that  for  a  week,  less  twenty-five  cents  for  your  hos 
pital  dues.  The  choppers  pay  a  dollar  a  month  toward 
the  hospital,  and  that  covers  medical  attendance  for 
them  and  their  families." 

Donald  laughed  and  flipped  a  quarter  over  to  the 
cashier,  then  turned  and  handed  ten  dollars  to  a  wiry 
little  chopper  standing  in  line. 

"I  was  feeling  so  good  this  morning  I  bet  Sandy  my 
week's  pay  I  could  fell  a  tree  quicker  than  he  and  with 
less  breakage.  He  won  in  a  walk,"  he  explained  to  The 
Laird. 

"Come  with  me,"  his  father  ordered,  and  led  him  into 
the  office. 

From  the  huge  safe  he  selected  a  ledger,  scanned  the 
index,  and  opened  it  at  a  certain  account  headed, 
"Sandy  Clough."  To  Sandy's  credit  each  month,  ex 
tending  over  a  period  of  fifteen  years,  appeared  a  credit 
of  thirty  dollars. 

"That's  what  it's  costing  me  to  have  discovered 
Sandy,"  his  father  informed  him;  "but  since  I  had 
served  an  apprenticeship  as  a  chopper,  the  time  re 
quired  to  discover  Sandy  was  less  than  half  an  hour. 
I  watched  hijn  one  day  when  he  didn't  know  who  I  was 
— so  I  figured  him  for  a  man  and  a  half  and  raised  him 
a  dollar  a  day.  He  doesn't  know  it,  however.  If  he 
did,  he'd  brag  about  it,  and  I'd  have  to  pay  as  much 
to  men  half  as  good.  When  he's  chopped  for  us  twenty 
years,  fire  him  and  give  him  that.  He's  earned  it.  Thus 
endeth  the  first  lesson,  my  son.  Now  come  home  to 
dinner." 

After  dinner,  Donald  returned  to  town  to  buy  him 
self  some  working-clothes  at  the  general  store.  His 


72  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

purchases  completed,  he  sought  the  juvenile  depart 
ment. 

"I  want  some  kid's  clothing,"  he  announced.  "To 
fit  a  child  of  three.  Rompers,  socks,  shoes — the  com 
plete  outfit.  Charge  them  to  my  account  and  send 
them  over  to  Nan  Brent  at  the  Sawdust  Pile.  I'll  give 
you  a  note  to  enclose  with  them." 

Notwithstanding  the  fact  that  she  was  an  employe  of 
the  Tyee  Lumber  Company,  the  girl  who  waited  on  him 
stared  at  him  frankly.  He  noticed  this  and  bent  upon 
her  a  calm  glance  that  brought  a  guilty  flush  to  her 
cheek.  Quickly  she  averted  her  eyes,  but,  nevertheless 
she  had  a  feeling  that  the  young  laird  of  Tyee  was 
still  appraising  her,  and,  unable  to  withstand  the  fas 
cination  peculiar  to  such  a  situation,  she  looked  at  him 
again  to  verify  her  suspicions — and  it  was  even  so.  In 
great  confusion  she  turned  to  her  stock,  and  Donald, 
satisfied  that  he  had  squelched  her  completely,  went  into 
the  manager's  office,  wrote,  and  sealed  the  following  note 
to  Nan  Brent: 

Saturday  night 
FRIEND  NAN: 

Here  are  some  duds  for  the  young  fellow.  You  gave 
me  the  right  to  look  after  him,,  you  know;  at  least,,  you 
didn't  decline  it.  At  any  rate,  I  think  you  will  not  mind 
accepting  them  from  me. 

I  sent  to  Seattle  for  some  books  I  thought  you  might 
like.  They  have  probably  arrived  by  parcel-post.  Sent 
you  a  box  of  candy,  also,  although  I  have  forgotten  the 
kind  you  used  to  prefer. 

Been  up  in  the  logging-camp  all  week,  chopping,  and  I 
ache  all  over.  Expect  to  be  hard  and  not  quite  so  weary 
by  next  week-end,  and  will  call  over  for  Sunday  dinner. 
Sincerely,  ^^ 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  73 

He  spent  Sunday  at  The  Dreamerie,  and  at  four 
o'clock  Sunday  afternoon  boarded  the  up  train  and  re 
turned  to  the  logging-camp.  Mrs.  Andrew  Daney, 
seated  in  Sunday-afternoon  peace  upon  her  front  veran 
da,  looked  up  from  the  columns  of  the  Churchman  as 
the  long  string  of  logging-trucks  wound  round  the  base 
of  the  little  knoll  upon  which  the  general  manager's 
home  stood;  but  even  at  a  distance  of  two  blocks,  she 
recognized  the  young  laird  of  Tyee  in  the  cab  with  the 
engineer. 

"Dear,  dear !"  this  good  soul  murmured.  "And  such 
a  nice  young  man,  too !  I  should  think  he'd  have  more 
consideration  for  his  family,  if  not  for  himself." 

"Who's  that?"  Mr.  Daney  demanded,  emerging  from 
behind  the  Seattle  Post-Intelligencer. 

"Donald  McKaye." 

"What  about  him?"  Mr.  Daney  demanded,  with  slight 
emphasis  on  the  pronoun. 

"Oh,  nothing;  only " 

"Only  what?" 

"People  say  he's  unduly  interested  in  Nan  Brent." 

"If  he  is,  that's  his  business.  Don't  let  what  people 
say  trouble  you,  Mrs.  Daney." 

"Well,  can  I  help  it  if  people  will  talk?" 

"Yes — when  they  talk  to  you." 

"How  do  you  know  they've  been  talking  to  me,  An 
drew?"  she  demanded  foolishly. 

"Because  you  know  what  they  say."  Andrew  Daney 
-rose  from  the  wicker  deck-chair  in  which  he  had  been 
lounging  and  leveled  his  index-finger  at  the  partner  of 
his  joys  and  sorrows.  "You  forget  Donald  McKaye 
and  that  Brent  girl,"  he  ordered.  "It's  none  of  your 
business.  All  Don  has  to  say  to  me  is,  'Mr.  Daney,  your 


74  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

job  is  vacant' — and,  by  Judas  Priest,  it'll  be  vacant. 
Remember  that,  my  dear." 

"Nonsense,  dear.  The  Laird  wouldn't  permit  it — 
after  all  these  years." 

"If  it  comes  to  a  test  of  strength,  I'll  lose,  and  don't 
you  forget  it.  Old  sake's  sake  is  all  that  saved  me  from 
a  run-in  with  Donald  before  he  had  been  in  command 
fifteen  minutes.  I  refer  to  that  Sawdust  Pile  episode. 
You  dissuaded  me  from  doing  my  duty  in  that  matt<?^, 
IVIary,  and  my  laxity  was  not  pleasing  to  Donald.  I 
don't  blame  him  a  whit." 

"Did  he  say  anything?"  she  demanded,  a  trifle 
alarmed. 

"No;  but  he  looked  it." 

"How  did  he  look,  Andrew?" 

"He  looked,"  her  husband  replied,  "like  the  Blue  Bon 
nets  coming  over  the  border — that's  what  he  looked 
like.  Then  he  went  down  to  the  Sawdust  Pile  like  a 
raging  demon,  cleaned  it  out  in  two  twos,  and  put  it  to 
the  torch.  You  be  careful  what  you  say  to  people, 
Mary.  Get  that  boy  started  once,  and  he'll  hark  back 
to  his  paternal  ancestors;  and  if  The  Laird  has  ever 
told  you  the  history  of  that  old  claymore  that  hangs 
on  the  wall  in  The  Dreamerie,  you  know  that  the  favor 
ite  outdoor  sports  of  the  McKaye  tribe  were  fighting 
and  foot-racing — with  the  other  fellow  in  front." 

"The  Laird  is  mild  enough,"  she  defended. 

"Yes,  he  is.  But  when  he  was  young,  he  could,  and 
frequently  did,  whip  twice  his  weight  in  bear-cats.  Old 
as  he  is  to-day,  he's  as  sound  as  a  man  of  forty;  he 
wouldn't  budge  an  inch  for  man  or  devil." 

Mrs.  Daney  carefully  folded  the  Churchman,  laid  it 
aside,  and  placed  her  spectacles  with  it. 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  75 

"Andrew,  I  know  it's  terrible  of  me  to  breathe  such 
a  thing,  but — did  it  ever  occur  to  you  that — perhaps 
— the  father  of  Nan  Brent's  child  might  be " 

"Donald?"  he  exploded  incredulously. 

She  nodded,  and  about  her  nod  there  was  something 
of  that  calm  self-confidence  of  an  attorney  who  is 
winning  his  case  and  desires  to  impress  that  fact  upon 
the  jury. 

"By  God,  woman,"  cried  Daney,  "you  have  the  most 
infernal  ideas " 

"Andrew!     Remember  it's  the  Sabbath!" 

"It's  a  wonder  my  language  doesn't  shrivel  this 
paper.  Now  then,  where  in  hades  do  you  get  this  crazy 
notion?"  Daney  was  thoroughly  angry.  She  gazed 
up  at  him  in  vague  apprehension.  Had  she  gone  too, 
far?  Suddenly  he  relaxed.  "No;  don't  tell  me,"  he 
growled.  "Ill  not  be  a  gossip.  God  forgive  me,  I  was 
about  to  befoul  the  very  salt  I  eat.  I'll  riot  be  dis 
loyal." 

"But,  Andrew  dear,  don't  you  know  I  wouldn't  dare 
breathe  it  to  anyone  but  you?" 

"I  don't  know  how  much  you'd  dare.  At  any  rate, 
I'll  excuse  you  from  breathing  it  to  me,  for  I'm  not 
interested.  I  know  it  isn't  true." 

"Then,  Andrew,  it  is  your  duty  to  tell  me  why  you 
know  it  isn't  true,  in  order  that  I  may  set  at  rest  cer 
tain  rumors " 

"You — mind — your — own — business,  Mary !"  he 
cried  furiously,  punctuating  each  word  with  a  vigorous 
tap  of  his  finger  on  the  arm  of  her  chair.  "The  Mc- 
Kayes  meet  their  responsibilities  as  eagerly  as  they  do 
their  enemies.  If  that  child  were  young  Donald's,  he'd 


76  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

have  married  the  Brent  girl,  and  if  he  had  demurred 
about  it,  The  Laird  would  have  ordered  him  to." 

"Thank  you  for  that  vote  of  confidence  in  the  Mc- 
Kaye  family,  Andrew,"  said  a  quiet  voice.  "I  think 
you  have  the  situation  sized  up  just  right." 

Andrew  Daney  whirled ;  his  wife  glanced  up,  startled, 
then  half  rose  and  settled  back  in  her  chair  again,  for 
her  legs  absolutely  refused  to  support  her.  Standing 
at  the  foot  of  the  three  steps  that  led  off  the  veranda 
was  Hector  McKaye ! 

"I  drove  Donald  down  from  The  Dreamerie  to  catch 
the  up  train,  and  thought  I'd  drop  over  and  visit  with 
you  a  bit,"  he  explained.  "I  didn't  intend  to  eaves 
drop,  and  I  didn't — very  much ;  but  since  I  couldn't 
help  overhearing  such  a  pertinent  bit  of  conversation, 
I'll  come  up  and  we'll  get  to  the  bottom  of  it.  Keep 
your  seat,  Mrs.  Daney." 

The  advice  was  unnecessary.  The  poor  soul  could 
not  have  left  it.  The  Laird  perched  himself  on  the 
veranda  railing,  handed  the  dumfounded  Daney  a  cigar, 
and  helped  himself  to  one. 

"Well,  proceed,"  The  Laird  commanded.  His  words 
apparently  were  addressed  to  both,  but  his  glance  was 
fixed  on  Mrs.  Daney — and  now  she  understood  full  well 
her  husband's  description  of  the  McKaye  look. 

"I  had  finished  what  I  had  to  say,  Mr.  McKaye," 
Andrew  Daney  found  courage  to  say. 

"So  I  noted,  Andrew,  and  right  well  and  forcibly  you 
said  it.  I'm  grateful  to  you.  I  make  no  mistake,  I 
think,  if  your  statement  wasn't  in  reply  to  some  idle  tale 
told  your  good  wife  and  repeated  by  her  to  you — in 
confidence,  of  course,  as  between  man  and  wife." 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  77 

"If  you'll  excuse  me,  Mr.  McKaye,  I — I'd  rather  not 
— discuss  it !"  Mary  Daney  cried  breathlessly. 

"I  would  I  did  not  deem  it  a  duty  to  discuss  it  my 
self,  Mary.  But  you  must  realize  that  when  the  tongue 
of  scandal  touches  my  son,  it  becomes  a  personal  matter 
with  me,  and  I  must  look  well  for  a  weapon  to  combat 
it.  You'll  tell  me  now,  Mary,  what  they've  been  saying 
about  Donald  and  Caleb  Brent's  daughter." 

"Andrew  will  tell  you,"  she  almost  whispered,  and 
made  as  if  to  go.  But  The  Laird's  fierce  eyes  deterred 
her;  she  quailed  and  sat  down  again. 

"Andrew  cannot  tell  me,  because  Andrew  doesn't 
know,"  The  Laird  rebuked  her  kindly.  "I  heard  him 
tell  you  not  to  tell  him,  that  he  wasn't  a  gossip,  and 
wouldn't  befoul  the  salt  he  ate  by  being  disloyal,  or 
words  to  that  effect.  Is  it  possible,  Mary  Daney,  that 
you  prefer  me  to  think  you  are  not  inspired  by  similar 
sentiments?  Don't  cry,  Mary — compose  yourself." 

"Idleness  is  the  mother  of  mischief,  and  since  the  chil 
dren  have  grown  up  and  left  home,  Mary  hasn't  enough 
to  keep  her  busy,"  Daney  explained.  "So,  womanlike 
and  without  giving  sober  thought  to  the  matter,  she's 
been  listening  to  the  idle  chattering  of  other  idle  women. 
Now  then,  my  dear,"  he  continued,  turning  to  his 
wife,  "that  suspicion  you  just  voiced  didn't  grow  in 
your  head.  Somebody  put  it  there — and  God  knows  it 
found  fertile  soil.  Out  with  it  now,  wife !  Who've  you 
been  gossiping  with?" 

"I'll  name  no  names,"  the  unhappy  woman  sobbed; 
"but  somebody  told  me  that  somebody  else  was  down 
at  the  Sawdust  Pile  the  day  Donald  burned  those 
shacks,  and  after  be  burned  them  he  spent  an  hour  in 
the  Brent  cottage,  and  when  he  came  out  he  had  the 


78  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

baby  in  his  arms.  When  he  left,  the  child  made  a  great 
to-do  and  called  him,  'daddy.' " 

The  Laird  smiled. 

"Well,  Mary,  what  would  you  expect  the  boy  to 
do?  Beat  the  child?  To  my  knowledge,  he's  been 
robbing  the  candy  department  of  my  general  store  for 
years,  and  the  tots  of  Port  Agnew  have  been  the  bene 
ficiaries  of  his  vandalism.  He  was  born  with  a  love  of 
children.  And  would  you  convict  him  on  the  prattle  of 
an  innocent  child  in  arms?" 

"Certainly  not,  Mr.  McKaye.  I  understand.  Well 
then,  on  Saturday  night  he  sent  over  a  complete  outfit 
of  clothing  for  the  child,  with  a  note  in  the  bun 
dle " 

"Hm-m-m." 

"And  then  somebody  remembered  that  the  child's 
name  is  Donald." 

"How  old  is  that  child,  Mrs.  Daney?" 

She  considered. 

"As  I  recall  it,  he'll  be  three  years  old  in  October." 

"Since  you're  a  married  woman,  Mrs.  Daney,"  The 
Laird  began,  with  old-fashioned  deprecation  for  the 
blunt  language  he  was  about  to  employ,  "you'll  admit 
that  the  child  wasn't  found  behind  one  of  old  Brent's 
cabbages.  This  is  the  year  1916." 

But  Mrs.  Daney  anticipated  him. 

"They've  figured  it  out,"  she  interrupted,  "and  Don 
ald  was  home  from  college  for  the  holidays  in  1912." 

"So  he  was,"  The  Laird  replied  complacently.  "I'd 
forgotten.  So  that  alibi  goes  by  the  board.  What  else 
now?  Does  the  child  resemble  my  son?" 

"Nobody  knows.  Nan  Brent  doesn't  receive  visitors, 
and  she  hasn't  been  up-town  since  the  child  was  born." 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  79 

"Is  that  all,  Mary?" 

"All  I  have  heard  so  far." 

Old  Hector  was  tempted  to  tell  her  that,  in  his 
opinion,  she  had  heard  altogether  too  much,  but  his  re 
gard  for  her  husband  caused  him  to  refrain. 

"It's  little  enough,  and  yet  it's  a  great  deal,"  he 
answered.  "You'll  be  kind  enough,  Mary,  not  to  carry 
word  of  this  idle  gossip  to  The  Dreamerie.  I  should 
regret  that  very  much." 

She  flushed  with  the  knowledge  that,  although  he  for 
gave  her,  still  he  distrusted  her  and  considered  a  warn 
ing  necessary.  However,  she  nodded  vigorous  accept 
ance  of  his  desire,  and  immediately  he  changed  the 
topic.  While,  for  him,  the  quiet  pleasure  he  had  antici 
pated  in  the  visit  had  not  materialized  and  he  longed 
to  leave  at  once,  for  Daney's  sake  he  remained  for  tea. 
When  he  departed,  Mrs.  Daney  ran  to  her  room  and 
found  surcease  from  her  distress  in  tears,  while  her  hus 
band  sat  out  on  the  veranda  smoking  one  of  The  Laird's 
fine  cigars,  his  embarrassment  considerably  alleviated 
by  the  knowledge  that  his  imprudent  wife  had  received 
a  lesson  that  should  last  for  the  remainder  of  her 
life. 

About  eight  o'clock,  his  wife  called  him  to  the  tele 
phone.  The  Laird  was  on  the  wire. 

"In  the  matter  of  the  indiscreet  young  lady  in  the 
store,  Andrew,"  he  ordered,  "do  not  dismiss  her  or 
reprimand  her.  The  least  said  in  such  cases  is  soonest 
mended." 

"Very  well,  sir." 

"Good-night,  Andrew." 

"Good-night,  z\r." 

"Poor  man!'5  Eaney  sighed,  as  he  hung  up.     "He's 


TO  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

thought  of  nothing  else  since  he  heard  about  it ;  it's  a 
canker  in  his  heart.  I  wish  I  dared  indicate  to  Donald 
the  fact  that  he's  being  talked  about — and  watched — 
by  the  idle  and  curious,  in  order  that  he  may  bear  him 
self  accordingly.  He'd  probably  misunderstand  my 
motives,  however." 


IX 

^\  TIRING  the  week,  Mary  Daney  refrained  from 
••— *  broaching  the  subject  of  that  uncomfortable  Sun 
day  afternoon,  wherefore  her  husband  realized  she  was 
thinking  considerably  about  it  and,  as  a  result,  was 
not  altogether  happy.  Had  he  suspected,  however,  the 
trend  her  thoughts  were  taking,  he  would  have  been 
greatly  perturbed.  Momentous  thoughts  rarely  racked 
Mrs.  Daney's  placid  and  somewhat  bovine  brain,  but 
once  she  became  possessed  with  the  notion  that  Nan 
Brent  was  the  only  human  being  possessed  of  undoubted 
power  to  create  or  suppress  a  scandal  which  some  queer 
feminine  intuition  warned  her  impended,  the  more  firmly 
did  she  become  convinced  that  it  was  her  Christian  duty 
to  call  upon  Nan  Brent  and  strive  to  present  the  situa 
tion  in  a  common-sense  light  to  that  erring  young 
woman. 

Having  at  length  attained  to  this  resolution,  a  subtle 
peace  settled  over  Mrs.  Daney,  the  result,  doubtless,  of 
a  consciousness  of  virtue  regained,  since  she  was  about 
to  right  a  wrong  to  which  she  had  so  thoughtlessly  been 
a  party.  Her  decision  had  almost  been  reached  when 
her  husband,  coming  home  for  luncheon  at  noon  on  Sat 
urday,  voiced  the  apprehension  which  had  harassed  him 
during  the  week. 

"Donald  will  be  home  from  the  woods  to-night,"  he 
announced,  in  troubled  tones.  "I  do  hope  he'll  not 
permit  that  big  heart  of  his  to  lead  him  into  further 

81 


82  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

kindnesses  that  will  be  misunderstood  by  certain  people 
in  case  they  hear  of  them.  I  have  never  known  a  man 
so  proud  and  fond  of  a  son  as  The  Laird  is  of  Don 
ald." 

"Nonsense!"  his  wife  replied  complacently.  "The 
Laird  has  forgotten  all  about  it." 

"Perhaps.  Nevertheless,  he  will  watch  his  son,  arcl 
if,  by  any  chance,  the  boy  should  visit  the  Sawdi ..;•: 
Pile " 

"Then  it  will  be  time  enough  to  worry  about  LVri, 
Andrew.  In  the  meantime,  it's  none  of  our  business, 
dear.  Eat  your  luncheon  and  don't  think  about  it." 

He  relapsed  into  moody  silence.  When  he  had  de 
parted  for  the  mill  office,  however,  his  wife's  decision 
had  been  reached.  Within  the  hour  she  was  on  her  way 
to  the  Sawdust  Pile,  but  as  she  approached  Caleb 
Brent's  garden  gate,  she  observed,  with  a  feeling  of 
gratification,  that,  after  all,  it  was  not  going  to  be 
necessary  for  her  to  be  seen  entering  the  house  or  leav 
ing  it.  Far  up  the  strand  she  saw  a  woman  and  a  little 
child  sauntering. 

Nan  Brent  looked  up  at  the  sound  of  footsteps 
crunching  the  shingle,  identified  Mrs.  Daney  at  a  glance, 
and  turned  her  head  instantly,  at  the  same  time  walking 
slowly  away  at  right  angles,  in  order  to  obviate  a  meet 
ing.  To  her  surprise,  Mrs.  Daney  also  changed  her 
course,  and  Nan,  observing  this  out  of  the  corner  of 
her  eye,  dropped  her  apronful  of  driftwood  and  turned 
to  face  her  visitor. 

"Good  afternoon,  Miss  Brent.  May  I  speak  to  you 
for  a  few  minutes?" 

"Certainly,  Mrs.  Daney." 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  83 

Mrs.  Daney  nodded  condescendingly  and  sat  down 
on  the  white  sand. 

"Be  seated,  Miss  Brent,  if  you  please." 

"Well,  perhaps  if  we  sit  down,  we  will  be  less  readily 
recognized  at  a  distance."  Nan  replied  smilingly,  and 
was  instantly  convinced  that  she  had  read  her  visitor's 
mind  aright,  for  Mrs.  Daney  flushed  slightly.  "Sup 
pose,"  the  girl  suggested  gently,  "that  you  preface 
what  you  have  to  say  by  calling  me  'Nan.'  You  knew 
me  well  enough  to  call  me  that  in  an  earlier  and  hap 
pier  day,  Mrs.  Daney." 

"Thank  you,  Nan.  I  shall  accept  your  invitation 
and  dispense  with  formality."  She  hesitated  for  a  be 
ginning,  and  Nan,  observing  her  slight  embarrassment, 
was  gracious  enough  to  aid  her  by  saying : 

"I  dare  say  your  visit  has  something  to  do  with 
the  unenviable  social  position  in  which  I  find  myself  in 
Port  Agnew,  Mrs.  Daney,  for  I  cannot  imagine  any 
other  possible  interest  in  me  to  account  for  it.  So  you 
may  be  quite  frank.  I'm  sure  nothing  save  a  profound 
sense  of  duty  brought  you  here,  and  I  am  prepared  to 
listen."  This  was  a  degree  of  graciousness  the  lady  had 
not  anticipated,  and  it  put  her  at  her  ease  imme 
diately. 

"I've  called  to  talk  to  you  about  Donald  McKaye," 
she  began  abruptly. 

"At  the  solicitation  of  whom?" 

"Nobody."  Mrs.  Daney  sighed.  "It  was  just  an 
idea  of  mine." 

"Ah — I  think  I  prefer  it  that  way.  Proceed,  Mrs. 
Daney." 

"Young  Mr.   McKaye  is  unduly  interested  in  you, 


84  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

Nan — at  least,  that  is  the  impression  of  a  number  of 
people  in  Port  Agnew." 

"I  object  to  the  use  of  the  adverb  'unduly'  in  con 
nection  with  Mr.  Donald's  interest  in  my  father  and 
me.  But  no  matter.  Since  Port  Agnew  has  no  interest 
in  me,  pray  why,  Mrs.  Daney,  should  I  have  the  slight 
est  interest  in  the  impressions  of  these  people  you  refer 
to  and  whose  volunteer  representative  vou  appear  to 
be?" 

"There !  I  knew  you  would  be  offended !"  Mrs.  Daney 
cried,  with  a  deprecatory  shrug.  "I'm  sure  I  find  this 
a  most  difficult  matter  to  discuss,  and  I  assure  you,  I 
do  not  desire  to  appear  offensive." 

"Well,  you  are;  but  I  can  stand  it,  and  whether  I 
resent  it  or  not  cannot  be  a  matter  of  much  import  to 
you  or  the  others.  And  I'll  try  not  to  be  disagreeable. 
Just  why  did  you  come  to  see  me,  Mrs.  Daney?" 

"I  might  as  well  speak  plainly,  Miss  Brent.  Donald 
McKay e's  action  in  ridding  the  Sawdust  Pile  of  your 
neighbors  has  occasioned  comment.  It  appears  that 
this  was  his  first  official  act  after  assuming  his  father's 
place  in  the  business.  Then  he  visited  you  and  your 
father  for  an  hour,  and  your  child,  whom  it  appears 
you  have  named  Donald,  called  him  'daddy.'  Then, 
last  Saturday  night,  Mr.  McKaye  sent  over  some  cloth 
ing  for  the  boy " 

"Whereupon  the  amateur  detectives  took  up  the 
trail,"  Nan  interrupted  bitterly.  "And  you  heard  of  it 
immediately." 

"His  father  heard  of  it  also,"  Mrs.  Daney  continued. 
"It  worries  him." 

"It  should  not.  He  should  have  more  faith  in  his 
son,  Mrs.  Daney." 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  85 

"He  is  a  father,  my  dear,  very  proud  of  his  son, 
very  devoted  to  him,  and  fearfully  ambitious  for  Don 
ald's  future." 

"And  you  fear  that  I  may  detract  from  the  radiance 
of  that  future?  Is  that  it?" 

"In  plain  English,"  the  worthy  lady  replied  brutally, 
"it  is." 

"I  see  your  point  of  view  very  readily,  Mrs.  Daney. 
Your  apprehensions  are  ridiculous — almost  pathetic. 
Don  McKaye's  great  sympathy  is  alone  responsible  for 
his  hardihood  in  noticing  me,  and  he  is  so  much  too  big 
for  Port  Agnew  that  it  is  no  wonder  his  motives  are  mis 
understood.  However,  I  am  sorry  his  father  is  worried. 
We  have  a  very  great  respect  for  The  Laird;  indeed, 
we  owe  him  a  debt  of  gratitude,  and  there  is  nothing 
my  father  or  I  would  not  do  to  preserve  his  peace  of 
mind." 

"The  talk  will  die  out,  of  course,  unless  something 
should  occur  to  revive  it,  Miss  Brent — I  mean,  Nan. 
But  it  would  be  just  like  Donald  McKaye  to  start  a 
revival  of  this  gossip.  He  doesn't  care  a  farthing  for 
what  people  think  or  say,  and  he  is  too  young  to  realize 
that  one  must  pay  some  attention  to  public  opinion. 
You  realize  that,  of  course." 

"I  ought  to,  Mrs.  Daney.  I  think  I  have  had  some 
experience  of  public  opinion,"  Nan  replied  sadly. 

"Then,  should  Donald  McKaye's  impulsive  sympathy 
lead  him  to — er " 

"You   mean   that   I   am   to   discourage  him   in   the 

event " 

1     "Precisely,  Miss  Brent.     For  his  father's  sake." 

"Not  to  mention  your  husband's  position.  Precisely, 
Mrs.  Daney." 


86  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

Mary  Daney's  heart  fluttered. 

"I  have  trusted  to  your  honor,  Nan — although  I 
didn't  say  so  in  the  beginning — not  to  mention  my  visit 
or  this  interview  to  a  living  soul." 

"My  'honor !'  "  Nan's  low,  bitter  laugh  raked  the 
Daney  nerves  like  a  rasp.  "I  think,  Mrs.  Daney,  that 
I  may  be  depended  upon  to  follow  my  own  inclinations 
in  this  matter.  I  suspect  you  have  been  doing  some 
talking  yourself  and  may  have  gone  too  far,  with 
the  result  that  you  are  hastening  now,  by  every  means 
jn  your  power,  to  undo  whatever  harm,  real  or  fancied, 
has  grown  out  of  your  lack  of  charity.5* 

"Nan,  I  beg  of  you " 

"Don't !  You  have  no  right  to  beg  anything  of  me. 
I  am  not  unintelligent  and  neither  am  I  degraded.  I 
think  I  possess  a  far  keener  conception  of  my  duty 
than  do  you  or  those  whom  you  have  elected  to  repre 
sent;  hence  I  regard  this  visit  as  an  unwarranted  im 
pertinence.  One  word  from  me  to  Donald  Mc- 
Kaye " 

Terror  smote  the  Samaritan.  She  clasped  her  hands ; 
her  lips  were  pale  and  trembling. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,"  she  pleaded,  "you  wouldn't 
breathe  a  word  to  him,  would  you?  Promise  me  you'll 

say  nothing.  How  could  I  face  my  husband  if — if " 

She  began  to  weep. 

"I  shall  promise  nothing,"  Nan  replied  sternly. 

"But  I  only  came  for  his  father's  sake,  you  cruel 
girl!" 

"Perhaps  his  father's  case  is  safer  in  my  hands  than 
in  yours,  Mrs.  Daney,  and  safest  of  all  in  those  of  his 
son." 

The  outcast  of  Port  Agnew  rose,  filled  her  apron 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  87 

with  the  driftwood  she  had  gathered,  and  called  to  her 
child.  As  the  little  fellow  approached,  Mrs.  Daney  so 
far  forgot  her  perturbation  as  to  look  at  him  keenly 
and  decide,  eventually,  that  he  bore  not  the  faintest 
resemblance  to  Donald  McKaye. 

"I'm  sure,  Nan,  you  will  not  be  heartless  enough  to 
tell  Donald  McKaye  of  my  visit  to  you,"  she  pleaded, 
as  the  girl  started  down  the  beach. 

"You  have  all  the  assurance  of  respectability,  dear 
Mrs.  Daney,"  Nan  answered  carelessly. 

"You  shall  not  leave  me  until  you  promise  to  be 
silent!"  Mary  Daney  cried  hysterically,  and  rose  to 
follow  her. 

"I  think  you  had  better  go,  Mrs.  Daney.  I  am  quite 
familiar  with  the  3{rure  of  The  Laird  since  his  retire 
ment;  he  wa?'.'.:-  round  the  bight  with  his  dogs  every 
afternoon  for  exercise,  and,  if  I  am  not  greatly  mis 
taken,  tiiat  is  he  coming  down  the  beach." 

Mrs.  Daney  cast  a  terrified  glance  in  the  direction 
indicated.  A  few  hundred  yards  up  the  beach  she 
recognized  The  Laird,  striding  briskly  along,  swinging 
his  stick,  and  with  his  two  English  setters  romping 
beside  him.  With  a  final  despairing  "Please  Nan ; 
please  do  not  be  cruel!"  she  fled,  Nan  Brent  smiling 
mischievously  after  her  stout  retreating  form. 

"I  have  condemned  you  to  the  horrors  of  uncer 
tainty,"  the  girl  soliloquized.  "How  very,  very  stupid 
you  are,  Mrs.  Daney,  to  warn  me  to  protect  him!  As 
if  I  wouldn't  lay  down  my  life  to  uphold  his  honor! 
Nevertheless,  you  dear  old  bungling  busybody,  you 
are  absolutely  right,  although  I  suspect  no  altruistic 
reason  carried  you  forth  on  this  uncomfortable  errand." 

Nan  had  heretofore,   out   of  the  bitterness   of  her 


88  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

life,  formed  the  opinion  that  brickbats  were  for  the 
lowly,  such  as  she,  and  bouquets  solely  for  the  great, 
such  as  Donald  McKaye.  Now,  for  the  first  time,  she 
realized  that  human  society  is  organized  in  three  strata 
— high,  mediocre,  and  low,  and  that  when  a  mediocrity 
has  climbed  to  the  seats  of  the  mighty,  his  fellows 
strive  to  drag  him  back,  down  to  their  own  ignoble 
level — or  lower.  To  Nan,  child  of  poverty,  sorrow,  and 
solitude,  the  world  had  always  appeared  more  or  less 
incomprehensible,  but  this  afternoon,  as  she  retraced 
her  slow  steps  to  the  Sawdust  Pile,  the  old  dull  pain 
of  existence  had  become  more  complicated  and  acute 
with  the  knowledge  that  the  first  ray  of  sunlight  that 
had  entered  her  life  in  three  years  was  about  to  be 
withdrawn;  and  at  the  thought,  tears,  which  seemed 
to  well  from  her  heart  rather  than  from  her  eyes, 
coursed  down  her  cheeks  and  a  sob  broke  through  her 
clenched  lips. 

Her  progress  homeward,  what  with  the  heavy  bundle 
of  driftwood,  in  her  apron  impeding  her  stride,  coupled 
with  the  necessity  for  frequent  pauses  to  permit  her 
child  to  catch  up  with  her,  was  necessarily  slow — so 
slow,  in  fact,  that  presently  she  heard  quick  footsteps 
behind  her  and,  turning,  beheld  Hector  McKaye.  He 
smiled,  lifted  his  hat,  and  greeted  her  pleasantly. 

"Good-afternoon,  Miss  Nan.  That  is  a  heavy  burden 
of  driftwood  you  carry,  my  dear.  Here — let  me  relieve 
you  of  it.  I've  retired,  you  know,  and  the  necessity 
for  finding  something  to  do —  Bless  my  soul,  the 
girl's  crying!"  He  paused,  hat  in  hand,  and  gazed 
at  her  with  frank  concern.  She  met  his  look  bravely. 

"Thank  ypu,  Mr.  McKaye.  Please  do  not  bother 
about  it." 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  89 

"Oh,  but  I  shall  bother,"  he  answered.  "Remove 
your  apron,  girl,  and  I'll  tie  the  wood  up  in  it  and  carry 
it  home  for  you." 

Despite  her  distress,  she  smiled. 

"You're  such  an  old-fashioned  gentleman,"  she  re 
plied.  "So  very  much  like  your  son — I  mean,  your 
son  is  so  very  much  like  you." 

"That's  better.  I  think  I  enjoy  the  compliment  more 
when  you  put  it  that  way,"  he  answered.  "Do  not 
stand  there  holding  the  wood,  my  girl.  Drop  it." 

She  obeyed  and  employed  her  right  hand,  thus  freed, 
in  wiping  the  telltale  tears  from  her  sweet  face. 

"I  have  been  lax  in  neighborly  solicitude,"  The  Laird 
continued.  "I  must  send  you  over  a  supply  of  wood 
from  the  box  factory.  We  have  more  waste  than  we 
can  use  in  the  furnaces.  Is  this  your  little  man,  Nan? 
Sturdy  little  chap,  isn't  he?  Come  here,  bub,  and 
let  me  heft  you." 

He  swung  the  child  from  the  sands,  and  while  pre 
tending  to  consider  carefully  the  infant's  weight,  he 
searched  the  cherubic  countenance  with  a  swift,  apprais 
ing  glance. 

"Healthy  little  rascal,"  he  continued,  and  swung 
the  child  high  in  the  air  two  or  three  times,  smiling 
paternally  as  the  latter  screamed  with  delight.  "How 
do  you  like  that,  eh?"  he  demanded,  as  he  set  the  boy 
down  on  the  sand  again. 

"Dood !"  the  child  replied,  and  gazed  up  at  The  Laird 
yearningly.  "Are  you  my  daddy?" 

But  The  Laird  elected  to  disregard  the  pathetic 
query  and  busied  himself  gathering  up  the  bundle  of 
driftwood,  nor  did  he  permit  his  glance  to  rest  upon 
Nan  Brent's  flushed  and  troubled  face.  Tucking  the 


90  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

bundle  under  one  arm  and  taking  Nan's  child  on  the 
other,  he  whistled  to  his  dogs  and  set  out  for  the  Saw 
dust  Pile,  leaving  the  girl  to  follow  behind  him.  He 
preceded  her  through  the  gate,  tossed  the  driftwood 
on  a  small  pile  in  the  yard,  and  turned  to  hand  her  the 
apron. 

"You  are  not  altogether  happy,  poor  girl!"  he  said 
kindly.  "I'm  very  sorry.  I  want  the  people  in  my 
town  to  be  happy." 

"I  shall  grow  accustomed  to  it,  Mr.  McKaye,"  Nan 
answered.  "To-day,  I  am  merely  a  little  more  de 
pressed  than  usual.  Thank  you  so  much  for  carrying 
the  wood.  You  are  more  than  kind." 

His  calm,  inscrutable  gray  glance  roved  over  her. 
noting  her  beauty  and  her  sweetness,  and  the  soul  of 
him  was  troubled. 

"Is  it  something  you  could  confide  in  an  old  man?" 
he  queried  gently.  "You  are  much  neglected,  and  I — I 
understand  the  thoughts  that  must  come  to  you  some 
times.  Perhaps  you  would  be  happier  elsewhere  than 
in  Port  Agnew." 

"Perhaps,"  she  replied  dully. 

"If  you  could  procure  work — some  profession  to  keep 
your  mind  off  your  troubles — I  have  some  property  in 
Tacoma — suburban  lots  with  cottages  on  them."  The 
Laird  grew  confused  and  embarrassed  because  of  the 
thought  that  was  in  the  back  of  his  mind,  and  was 
expressing  himself  jerkily  and  in  disconnected  sentences. 
"I  do  not  mean — I  do  not  offer  charity,  for  I  take  it 
you  have  had  enough  insults — well,  you  and  your  father 
could  occupy  one  of  those  cottages  at  whatever  you 
think  you  could  afford  to  pay,  and  I  would  be  happy 
to  advance  you  any  funds  you  might  need  until  you — 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  91 


could  —  that  is,  of  course,  you  must  get  on  your 
again,  and  you  must  have  help  —  "  He  waved  his  hai^d 
"All  this  oppresses  me." 

The  remembrance  of  Mrs.  Daney's  interview  witi* 
her  prompted  the  girl  to  flash  back  at  him. 

"'Oppresses,'  Mr.  McKaye?     Since  when?" 

He  gazed  upon  her  in  frank  admiration  for  her 
audacity  and  perspicacity. 

"Yes,"  he  admitted  slowly;  "I  dare  say  I  deserve 
that.  Yet,  mingled  with  that  ulterior  motive  you  have 
so  unerringly  discerned,  there  is  a  genuine,  if  belated, 
desire  to  be  decently  human.  I  think  you  realize  that 
also." 

"I  should  be  stupid  and  ungrateful  did  I  not,  Mr. 
McKaye.  I  am  sorry  I  spoke  just  now  as  I  did,  but  I 
could  not  bear  --  " 

"To  permit  me  to  lay  the  flattering  unction  to  my 
soul  that  I  had  gotten  away  with  something,  eh?"  he 
laughed,  much  more  at  his  ease,  now  that  he  realized 
how  frank  and  yet  how  tactful  she  could  be. 

"It  wasn't  quite  worthy  of  you  —  not  because  I  might 
resent  it,  for  I  am  nobody,  but  because  you  should  have 
more  faith  in  yourself  and  be  above  the  possibility  of 
disturbance  at  the  hands  —  or  rather,  the  tongues  —  of 
people  who  speak  in  whispers."  She  came  close  to  him 
suddenly  and  laid  her  hand  lightly  on  his  forearm,  for 
she  was  speaking  with  profound  earnestness.  "I  am 
your  debtor,  Mr.  McKaye,  for  that  speech  you  found 
it  so  hard  to  make  just  now,  and  for  past  kindnesses 
from  you  and  your  son.  I  cannot  accept  your  offer. 
I  would  like  to,  did  my  pride  permit,  and  were  it  not 
for  the  fact  that  such  happiness  as  is  left  to  my  father 
can  only  be  found  by  the  Bight  of  Tyee.  So,  while  he 


92  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 


|  shall  not  desert  him.  As  for  your  apprehensions" 
-  5he  smiled  tolerantly  and  whimsically  —  "though  flat 
tering  to  me,  they  are  quite  unnecessary,  and  I  beg 
you  to  rid  your  mind  of  them.  I  am  —  that  which  I  am  ; 
yet  I  am  more  than  I  appear  to  be  to  some  and  I  shall 
not  wantonly  or  wilfully  hurt  you  —  or  yours." 

The  Laird  of  Tyee  took  in  both  of  his  the  slim  hand 
that  rested  so  lightly  on  his  sleeve  —  that  dainty  left 
hand  with  the  long,  delicate  fingers  and  no  wedding- 
ring. 

"My  dear  child,"  he  murmured,  "I  feel  more  than  I 
dare  express.  Good-by  and  may  God  bless  you  and  be 
good  to  you,  for  I  fear  the  world  will  not."  He  bowed 
with  old-fashioned  courtesy  over  her  hand  and  de 
parted  ;  yet  such  was  his  knowledge  of  life  that  now  his 
soul  was  more  deeply  troubled  than  it  had  been  since 
his  unintentional  eavesdropping  on  his  manager's  gar 
rulous  wife. 

"What  a  woman  !"  he  reflected.  "Brains,  imagina-> 
tion,  dignity,  womanly  pride,  courage,  beauty  and—  - 
yes  ;  I  agree  with  Donald.  Neither  maid,  wife,  nor 
widow  is  she  —  yet  she  is  not,  never  has  been,  and  never 
will  be  a  woman  without  virtue.  Ah,  Donald,  rny  son, 
she's  a  bonny  lass  !  For  all  her  fall,  she's  not  a  com 
mon  woman  and  my  son  is  not  a  common  man  —  I 
wonder  —  Oh,  'tis  lies,  lies,  lies,  and  she's  heard  them 
and  knows  they're  lies.  Ah,  my  son,  my  son,  with  the 
hot  blood  of  youth  in  you  —  you've  a  man's  head  and 
heart  and  a  will  of  your  own  —  Aye,  she's  sweet  — 
that  she  is  —  I  wonder!" 


AT  the  front  of  Caleb  Brent's  little  house  there  was 
a  bench  upon  which  the  old  man  was  wont  to  sit 
on  sunny  days — usually  in  the  morning,  before  the 
brisk,  cool  norVest  trade-wind  commenced  to  blow. 
Following  Hector  McKaye's  departure,  Nan  sought 
this  bench  until  she  had  sufficiently  mastered  her  emo 
tions  to  conceal  from  her  father  evidence  of  a  distress 
more  pronounced  than  usual;  as  she  sat  there,  she 
revolved  the  situation  in  her  mind,  scanning  every 
aspect  of  it,  weighing  carefully  every  possibility. 

In  common  with  the  majority  of  human  kind,  Nan 
considered  herself  entitled  to  life,  liberty,  and  the  pur 
suit  of  happiness,  and  now,  at  a  period  when,  in  Ihe 
ordinary  course  of  events,  all  three  of  these  necessary 
concomitants  of  successful  existence  (for,  to  her,  life 
meant  something  more  than  mere  living)  should  have 
been  hers  in  bounteous  measure,  despite  the  handicap 
under  which  she  had  been  born,  she  faced  a  future  so 
barren  that  sometimes  the  distant  boom  of  the  breakers 
on  Tyee  Head  called  to  her  to  desert  her  hopeless  fight 
and  in  the  blue  depths  out  yonder  find  haven  from  the 
tempests  of  her  soul. 

In  an  elder  day,  when  the  Sawdust  Pile  had  been 
Port  Agnew's  garbage-dump,  folks  who  clipped  their 
rose  bushes  and  thinned  out  their  marigold  plants  had 
been  accustomed  to  seeing  these  slips  take  root  again 
and  bloom  on  the  Sawdust  Pile  for  a  brief  period  after 


94  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

their  ash-cans  had  been  emptied  there;  and,  though  she 
did  not  know  it,  Nan  Brent  bore  pitiful  resemblance  to 
these  outcast  flowers.  Here,  on  the  reclaimed  Sawdust 
Pile,  she  had  bloomed  from  girlhood  into  lovely  woman 
hood — a  sweet  forget-me-not  in  the  Garden  of  Life, 
she  had  been  transplanted  into  Eden  until  Fate,  the 
grim  gardener,  had  cast  her  out,  to  take  root  again 
on  the  Sawdust  Pile  and  ultimately  to  wither  and  die. 

It  is  terrible  for  the  great  of  soul,  the  ambitious,  the 
imaginative,  when  circumstances  condemn  them  to  life 
amid  dull,  uninteresting,  drab,  and  sometimes  sordid 
surroundings.  Born  to  love  and  be  loved,  Nan  Brent's 
soul  beat  against  her  environment  even  as  a  wild  bird, 
captured  and  loosed  in  a  room,  beats  against  the  win 
dow-pane.  From  the  moment  she  had  felt  within  her 
the  vague  stirrings  of  womanhood,  she  had  been  wont 
to  gaze  upon  the  blue-back  hills  to  the  east,  to  the 
horizon  out  west,  wondering  what  mysteries  lay  beyond, 
and  yearning  to  encounter  them.  Perhaps  it  was  the 
sea-faring  instinct,  the  Wanderlust  of  her  forebears; 
perhaps  it  was  a  keener  appreciation  of  the  mediocrity 
of  Port  Agnew  than  others  in  the  little  town  possessed, 
a  realization  that  she  had  more  to  give  to  life  than  life 
had  to  give  to  her.  Perhaps  it  had  been  merely  the 
restlessness  that  is  the  twin  of  a  rare  heritage — the 
music  of  the  spheres — for  with  such  had  Nan  been 
born.  It  is  hard  to  harken  for  the  reedy  music  of  Pan 
and  hear  only  the  whine  of  a  sawmill  or  the  boom  of 
the  surf. 

Of  her  mother,  Nan  had  seen  but  little.  Her  recol 
lections  of  her  mother  were  few  and  vague;  of  her 
mother's  people,  she  knew  nothing  save  the  fact  that 
they  dwelt  in  a  world  quite  free  of  Brents,  and  that 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  /  95 

her  mother  had  committed  a  distinctly  social  faux  pas 
in  marrying  Caleb  Brent  she  guessed  long  before  Caleb 
Brent,  in  his  brave  simplicity,  had  imparted  that  fact 
to  her.  An  admiral's  daughter,  descendant  of  an  old 
and  wealthy  Revolutionary  family,  the  males  of  which 
had  deemed  any  calling  other  than  the  honorable  pro 
fession  of  arms  as  beneath  the  blood  and  traditions  of 
^he  family,  Nan's  mother  had  been  the  pet  of  Ports 
mouth  until,  inexplicably,  Caleb  Brent,  a  chief  petty 
officer  on  her  father's  flag-ship,  upon  whom  the  hero's 
medal  had  just  been  bestowed,  had  found  favor  in  her 
eyes.  The  ways  of  love,  as  all  the  philosophers  of  the 
ages  are  agreed.,  are  beyond  definition  or  understand 
ing;  even  in  his  own  case,  Caleb  Brent  was  not  equal 
to  the  task  of  understanding  how  their  love  had  grown, 
burgeoned  into  an  engagement,  and  ripened  into  mar 
riage.  He  only  knew  that,  from  a  meek  and  well-dis 
ciplined  petty  officer,  he  had  suddenly  developed  the 
courage  of  a  Sir  Galahad,  and,  while  under  the  influence 
of  a  strange  spell,  had  respectfully  defied  the  admiral, 
who  had  foolishly  assumed  that,  even  if  his  daughter 
would  not  obey  him,  his  junior  in  the  service  would. 
Then  had  come  the  baby  girl,  Nan,  the  divorce — 
pressed  by  the  mother's  family — and  the  mother's 
death. 

If  his  wife  had  discerned  in  him  the  nobility  that  was 
so  apparent  to  his  daughter —  Poor  old  hero !  But 
Nan  always  checked  her  meditations  at  this  point.  They 
didn't  seem  quite  fair  to  her  mother. 

Seated  on  the  bench  this  afternoon,  Nan  reviewed  her 
life  from  her  sixth  year,  the  year  in  which  her  father 
had  claimed  her.  Until  her  eighteenth  year,  she  had  not 
been  unhappy,  for5  following  their  arrival  in  Port 


96  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

Agnew,  her  father  had  prospered  to  a  degree  which  per 
mitted  his  daughter  the  enjoyment  of  the  ordinary 
opportunities  of  ordinary  people.  If  she  had  not  known 
extravagance  in  the  matter  of  dress,  neither  had  she 
known  penury;  when  her  feminine  instinct  impelled  her 
to  brighten  and  beautify  the  little  home  on  the  Sawdust 
Pile  from  time  to  time,  she  had  found  that  possible. 
She  had  been  graduated  with  honors  from  the  lo^al 
high  school,  and,  being  a  book-lover  of  catholic  taste 
and  wide  range,  she  was,  perhaps,  more  solidly  educated 
than  the  majority  of  girls  who  have  had  opportunities 
for  so-called  higher  education.  With  the  broad  democ 
racy  of  sawmill  towns,  she  had  not,  in  the  days  gone  by, 
been  excluded  from  the  social  life  of  the  town,  such 
as  it  was,  and  she  had  had  her  beaus,  such  as  they 
were.  Sometimes  she  wondered  how  the  choir  in  the 
Presbyterian  church  had  progressed  since  she,  once 
the  mezzo-soprano  soloist,  had  resigned  to  sing  lullabys 
to  a  nameless  child,  if  Andrew  Daney  still  walked  on 
the  tips  of  his  shoes  when  he  passed  the  collection-plate, 
and  if  the  mortgage  on  the  church  had  ever  been  paid. 

She  rose  wearily  and  entered  the  little  house.  Old 
Caleb  sat  at  the  dining-room  table  playing  solitaire.  He 
looked  up  as  she  entered,  swept  the  cards  into  a  heap, 
and  extended  his  old  arm  to  encircle  her  waist  as  she 
sat  on  the  broad  arm  of  his  chair.  She  drew  his  gray 
head  down  on  her  breast. 

"Dadkins,"  she  said  presently,  "Donald  McKaye  isn't 
coming  to  dinner  to-morrow  after  all." 

"Oh,  that's  too  bad,  Nan!  Has  he  written  you? 
What's  happened?" 

"No ;  he  hasn't  written  me,  and  nothing's  happened. 
I  have  decided  to  send  him  word  not  to  come." 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  97 

"Aren't  you  feeling  well,  my  dear?" 

"It  isn't  that,  popsy-wops.  He's  the  new  laird  of 
Tyee  now,  and  he  must  be  careful  of  the  company  he 
keeps." 

Old  Caleb  growled  in  his  throat. 

"Much  he  cares  what  people  think." 

"I  know  it.  And  much  I  care  what  people  think, 
for  I've  grown  accustomed  to  their  thoughts.  But  I 
do  care  what  his  father  thinks,  for,  of  course,  he  has 
plans  for  Donald's  future,  and  if  Donald,  out  of  the 
kindness  of  his  heart,  should  become  a  frequent  visitor 
here,  The  Laird  would  hear  of  it  sooner  or  later — 
sooner,  perhaps,  for  it  would  never  occur  to  Donald  to 
conceal  it — and  then  the  poor  laird  would  be  worried. 
And  we  don't  owe  The  Laird  that,  father  Brent!'* 

"No ;  we  do  not."    The  old  face  was  troubled. 

"I  met  Mrs.  Daney  on  the  beach,  and  it  was  she  who 
gave  me  the  intimation  that  The  Laird  had  heard  some 
cruel  gossip  that  was  disturbing  him." 

"I'm  sorry.  Well,  use  your  own  judgment,  daughter." 

"I'm  sure  Donald  will  understand,"  she  assured  him. 
"And  he  will  not  think  the  less  of  us  for  doing  it." 

She  got  up  and  went  to  the  peculiar  and  wholly 
impractical  little  desk  which  Mrs.  McKaye  had  picked 
up  in  Italy  and  which  Donald,  calm  in  the  knowledge 
that  his  mother  would  never  use  it  or  miss  it,  had 
given  her  to  help  furnish  the  house  when  first  they  had 
come  to  the  Sawdust  Pile.  On  a  leaf  torn  from  a  tablet, 
she  wrote : 

THE  SAWDUST  PILE,  Saturday  Afternoon. 
DEAR  DONALD: 

I  had  planned  to  reserve  my  thanks  for  the  books  and 
the  candy  until  you  called  for  dinner  to-morrow.  Now, 


98  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

I  have  decided  that  it  will  be  better  for  you  not  to  come 
to  dinner  to-morrow,  although  this  decision  has  not  beep 
made  without  father  and  me  being  sensible  of  a  keen  feel 
ing  of  disappointment.  We  had  planned  to  sacrifice  an 
old  hen  that  has  outlived  her  margin  of  profit,  hoping  that, 
with  the  admixture  of  a  pinch  of  saleratus,  she  would 
prove  tender  enough  to  tempt  the  appetite  of  a  lumber 
jack,  but,  upon  sober  second  thought,  it  seems  the  part 
of  wisdom  to  let  her  live. 

We  honor  and  respect  you,  Donald.  You  are  so  very 
dear  to  us  that  we  wish  to  cherish  always  your  good  opin 
ion  of  us;  we  want  everybody  in  Port  Agnew  to  think  of 
you  as  we  do.  People  will  misunderstand  and  misconstrue 
your  loyalty  to  the  old  friends  of  your  boyhood  if  you 
dare  admit  your  friendship.  Indeed,  some  have  already 
done  so.  I  thank  you  for  the  books  anci  the  candy,  but 
with  all  my  heart  I  am  grateful  to  you  for  a  gift  infinitely 
more  precious  but  which  is  too  valuable  for  me  to  accept. 
I  shall  have  to  treasure  it  at  a  distance.  Sometimes,  at 
colors,  you  might  wave  to 

Your  old  friend, 

NAN  BRENT. 


Her  letter  completed,  she  sealed  it  in  a  plain  white 
envelop,  after  which  she  changed  into  her  best  dress 
and  shoes  and  departed  up-town. 

Straight  to  the  mill  office  of  the  Tyee  Lumber  Com 
pany  she  went,  her  appearance  outside  the  railing  in 
the  general  office  being  the  signal  for  many  a  curious 
and  speculative  glance  from  the  girls  and  young  men 
at  work  therein.  One  of  the  former,  with  whom  Nan 
had  attended  high  school,  came  over  to  the  railing  and, 
without  extending  a  greeting,  either  of  word  or  smile, 
asked,  in  businesslike  tones, 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  99 

"Whom  do  you  wish  to  see?" 

In  direct  contrast  with  this  cool  salutation,  Nan 
inclined  her  head  graciously  and  smilingly  said: 

"Why,  how  do  you  do,  Hetty?  I  wonder  if  I  might 
be  permitted  a  minute  of  Mr.  Daney's  time." 

"I'll  see,"  Hetty  replied,  secretly  furious  in  the 
knowledge  that  she  had  been  serenely  rebuked,  and  im 
mediately  disappeared  in  the  general  manager's  office. 
A  moment  later,  she  emerged.  "Mr.  Daney  will  see 
you,  Miss  Brent,"  she  announced.  "First  door  to  your 
right.  Go  right  in." 

"Thank  you  very  much,  Hetty." 

Andrew  Daney,  seated  at  a  desk,  stood  up  as  she 
entered. 

"How  do  you  do,  Nan?"  he  greeted  her,  with  mascu 
line  cordiality,  and  set  out  a  chair.  "Please  be  seated 
and  tell  me  what  I  can  do  to  oblige  you." 

A  swift  scrutiny  of  the  private  office  convinced  her 
that  they  were  alone ;  so  she  advanced  to  the  desk  and 
laid  upon  it  the  letter  she  had  addressed  to  Donald 
McKaye. 

"I  would  be  grateful,  Mr.  Daney,  if  you  would  see 
that  Mr.  Donald  McKaye  receives  this  letter  when  he 
comes  in  from  the  woods  to-night,"  she  replied.  Daney 
was  frankly  amazed. 

"Bless  my  soul,"  he  blurted,  "why  do  you  entrust  me 
with  it?  Would  it  not  have  been  far  simpler  to  have 
mailed  it?" 

"Not  at  all,  Mr.  Daney.  In  the  first  place,  the 
necessity  for  writing  it  only  developed  an  hour  ago,  and 
in  order  to  be  quite  certain  Mr.  McKaye  would  receive 
it  this  evening,  I  would  have  had  to  place  a  special- 


100  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

delivery  stamp  upon  it.  I  did  not  have  a  special- 
delivery  stamp ;  so,  in  order  to  get  one,  I  would  have 
had  to  go  to  the  post-office  and  buy  it.  And  the  instant 
I  did  that,  the  girl  on  duty  at  the  stamp-window  would 
have  gone  to  the  mail-chute  to  get  the  letter  and  read 
the  address.  So  I  concluded  it  would  be  far  more 
simple  and  safe  to  entrust  my  letter  to  you.  More 
over,"  she  added,  "I  save  ten  cents." 

"I  am  very  greatly  obliged  to  you,  Nan,"  Daney 
answered  soberly.  "You  did  exactly  right,"  Had  she 
conferred  upon  him  a  distinct  personal  favor,  his  ex 
pression  of  obligation  could  not  have  been  more  sincere. 
He  took  a  large  envelop  of  the  Tyee  Lumber  Company, 
wrote  Donald's  name  upon  it,  enclosed  Nan's  letter  in 
this  large  envelop,  and  sealed  it  with  a  mighty  blow 
of  his  fist.  "Now  then,"  he  declared,  "what  people  do 
not  know  will  not  trouble  them.  After  you  go,  1*11 
place  this  envelop  in  Don's  mail-box  in  the  outer  office. 
I  think  we  understand  each  other,"  he  added  shrewdly. 

"I  think  we  do,  Mr.  Daney." 

"Splendid  fellow,  young  Donald!  Thundering  fine 
boy!" 

"I  agree  with  you,  Mr.  *Daney.  If  Donald  has  a 
fault,  it  is  his  excessive  democracy  and  loyalty  to  his 
friends.  Thank  you  so  much,  Mr.  Daney.  Good- 
afternoon." 

"Not  at  all — not  at  all !  All  this  is  quite  confidential, 
of  course,  otherwise  you  would  not  be  here."  He  bowed 
her  to  the  door,  opened  it  for  her,  and  bowed  again 
as  she  passed  him.  When  she  had  gone,  he  summoned 
the  young  lady  whom  Nan  had  addressed  as  "Hetty." 

"Miss  Fairchaild,"  he  said,  "  'phone  the  local  sales- 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  101 

office  and  tell  them  to  deliver  a  load  of  fire-wood  to  the 
Brent  house  at  the  Sawdust  Pile." 

Two  minutes  later,  the  entire  office  force  knew  that 
Nan  Brent  had  called  to  order  a  load  of  fire-wood,  and 
once  more  the  world  sagged  into  the  doldrums. 


XI 

AT  six  o'clock  Donald  came  in  from  the  logging- 
camp.  Daney  made  it  his  business  to  be  in  the 
entry  of  the  outer  office  when  his  superior  took  his  mail 
from  his  box,  and,  watching  narrowly,  thought  he  ob 
served  a  frown  on  the  young  laird's  face  as  he  read 
Nan  Brent's  letter.  Immediately  he  took  refuge  in  his 
private  office,  to  which  he  was  followed  almost  imme 
diately  by  Donald. 

"That's  your  handwriting,  Mr.  Daney,"  he  said, 
thrusting  the  large  envelop  under  Daney's  nose.  "An 
other  letter  in  a  smaller  envelop  was  enclosed  by  you 
in  this  large  one.  You  knew,  of  course,  who  wrote  it." 

"Miss  Brent  brought  it  personally." 

Donald  started  slightly.     He  was  amazed. 

"I  take  it,"  he  continued,  after  a  slight  pause,  "that 
it  was  entirely  your  idea  to  conceal  from  the  office 
force  the  fact  that  Miss  Brent  had  written  me  this 
letter." 

"It  was,  Don." 

"I  am  at  a  loss  to  know  why  you  took  such  a  pre 
caution."  Donald's  eyes  met  Daney's  in  frank  sus 
picion  ;  the  latter  thought  that  he  detected  some  slight 
anger  in  the  younger  man's  bearing. 

"I  can  enlighten  you,  Don.  Miss  Brent  was  at  some 
pains  to  conceal  the  fact  that  she  had  written  you  a 
letter;  she  brought  it  to  me  to  be  handed  to  you, 
rather  than  run  the  risk  of  discovery  by  dropping  it  in 

102 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  103 

the  post-office  for  special  delivery.  Some  of  the  girls 
in  our  office  went  to  school  with  Nan  Brent  and  might 
recognize  her  handwriting  if  they  saw  the  envelop.  I 
saw  Hetty  Fairchaild  looking  over  your  letters  rather 
interestedly  the  other  day,  when  she  was  sorting  the 
mail  and  putting  it  in  the  boxes." 

"The  entire  procedure  appears  to  me  to  be  peculiar 
and  wholly  unnecessary.  However,  I'm  obliged  to  you, 
Mr.  Daney,  for  acceding  so  thoroughly  to  Nan's  appar 
ent  wishes."  He  frowned  as  he  tore  the  envelop  into 
shreds  and  dropped  them  in  Daney's  waste-basket.  "I'm 
afraid  some  young  women  around  this  plant  are  going 
to  lose  their  jobs  unless  they  learn  to  restrain  their 
curiosity  and  their  tongues,"  he  added. 

"I  thought  I  was  still  general  manager,"  Daney 
reminded  him  gently.  "Hiring  and  firing  have  always 
been  my  peculiar  prerogatives." 

"Forgive  me,  Mr.  Daney.  They  shall  continue  to 
be."  The  young  Laird  grinned  at  the  rebuke;  Daney 
smiled  back  at  him,  and  the  somewhat  charged  atmos 
phere  cleared  instantly. 

"By  the  way,  Donald,  your  father  is  in  town.  He's 
going  up  to  Seattle  to-night  on  the  seven-ten  train. 
Your  mother  and  the  girls  left  earlier  in  the  week.  He's 
dining  at  the  hotel  and  wishes  you  to  join  him  there. 
He  figured  that,  by  the  time  you  could  reach  The 
Dreamerie,  shave,  bathe,  and  dress,  it  would  be  too 
late  to  have  dinner, with  him  there  and  still  allow  him 
time  to  catch  his  train." 

"How  does  idleness  sit  on  my  parent,  Mr.  Daney?" 

"Not  very  well,  I  fear.  He  shoots  and  fishes  and 
takes  long  walks  with  the  dogs;  he  was  out  twice  in 


104  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

your  sloop  this  week.  I  think  he  and  jour  mother  and 
the  girls  plan  a  trip  to  Honolulu  shortly/' 

"Good !"  Donald  yawned  and  stretched  his  big  body. 
"I've  lost  eight  pounds  on  this  chopping- job,"  he 
declared,  "and  I  thought  I  hadn't  an  ounce  of  fat  on 
me.  Zounds,  I'm  sore!  But  I'm  to  have  an  easy  job 
next  week.  I'm  to  patrol  the  skid-roads  with  a  grease- 
can.  That  woods  boss  is  certainly  running  me  ragged." 

"Well,  your  innings  will  come  later,"  Daney  smiled. 

At  the  mill  office,  Donald  washed,  and  then  strolled 
over  to  the  hotel  to  meet  his  father.  Old  Hector  grinned 
as  Donald,  in  woolen  shirt,  mackinaw,  corduroy 
trousers,  and  half-boots  came  into  the  little  lobby,  for 
in  his  son  he  saw  a  replica  of  himself  thirty  years 
agone." 

"Hello,  dad !"  Donald  greeted  him. 

"Hello,  yourself!" 

The  father,  in  great  good  humor,  joined  his  son, 
and  they  proceeded  to  dine,  chaffing  each  other  good- 
naturedly  the  while,  and  occasionally  exchanging  pleas 
antries  with  their  neighbors  at  adjoining  tables.  The 
Laird  was  in  excellent  spirits,  a  condition  which  his 
interview  that  afternoon  with  Nan  Brent  had  tended  to 
bring  about ;  during  the  period  that  had  elapsed  be 
tween  his  subsequent  doubts  and  his  meeting  with  his 
son,  he  had  finally  decided  that  the  entire  matter  was 
a  mare's  nest  and  had  dismissed  it  i'rom  his  mind. 

After  dinner,  they  walked  down  to  the  railroad  sta 
tion  together,  Donald  carding  his  father's  bag.  While 
The  Laird  was  at  the  ticket-window  purchasing  his 
transportation,  his  son  walked  over  to  a  baggage-truck 
to  rest  the  bag  upon  it.  As  the  bag  landed  with  a 
thud,  a  man  who  had  been  seated  on  the  truck  with 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  105 

his  back  toward  Donald  glanced  over  his  shoulder  in 
a  leisurely  way,  and,  in  that  glance,  the  latter  recog 
nized  one  of  the  Greeks  he  had  evicted  from  the  Sawdust 
Pile — the  same  man  who  had  thrown  a  beer-bottle  at 
him  the  day  he  motored  through  Darrow. 

"What  are  you  doing  in  Port  Agnew?"  Donald  de 
manded. 

To  his  query,  the  fellow  replied  profanely  that  this 
was  none  of  his  interrogator's  affair. 

"Well,  it  is  some  of  my  affair,"  the  new  boss  of  Tyee 
replied.  "I  have  a  crow  to  pluck  with  you,  anyhow, 
and  I'm  going  to  pluck  it  now."  He  grasped  the  Greek 
by  his  collar  and  jerked  him  backward  until  the  man 
lay  flat  on  his  back  across  the  baggage-truck;  then, 
with  his  horny  left  hand,  Donald  slapped  the  sullen  face 
vigorously,  jerked  the  fellow  to  his  feet,  faced  him  in 
the  direction  of  Darrow,  and,  with  a  vigorous  kick, 
started  him  on  his  way.  "That's  for  throwing  beer- 
bottles  !"  he  called  after  the  man.  "And  hereafter  you 
keep  out  of  Port  Agnew.  Your  kind  are  not  welcome 
here." 

The  Greek  departed  into  the  night  cursing,  while 
The  Laird,  still  at  the  ticket-window,  glanced  inter 
estedly  from  his  son  to  the  Greek  and  then  back  to 
Donald. 

"What's  the  idea,  son?"  he  demanded. 

"A  recent  dweller  on  the  Sawdust  Pile,"  his  son  re 
plied  easily.  "He  declared  war  on  me,  so,  naturally,  he 
comes  into  my  territory  at  his  own  risk.  That  scum 
from  Darrow  must  keep  out  of  our  town,  dad,  and  force 
is  the  only  argument  they  can  understand.  Daney 
gave  them  a  free  hand  and  spoiled  them,  but  I'm  going 
to  teach  them  who's  boss  around  here  now.  Besides, 


106  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

I  owe  that  fellow  a  poke.  He  insulted  Nan  Brent. 
There  would  have  been  a  bill  for  repairs  on  the  scoun 
drel  if  I  had  caught  him  the  day  I  drove  his  gang  off 
the  Sawdust  Pile." 

"Well,  I  approve  of  your  sentiments,  Donald,  but, 
nevertheless,  it's  a  poor  practise  for  a  gentleman  to 
fight  with  a  mucker,  although,"  he  added  whimsically, 
"when  I  was  your  age  I  always  enjoyed  a  go  with  such 
fellows.  That  man  you  just  roughed  is  George  Chirakes, 
and  he's  a  bad  one.  Knifed  three  of  his  countrymen 
in  a  drunken  riot  in  Darrow  last  fall,  but  got  out  of  it 
on  a  plea  of  self-defense.  Keep  your  eye  on  the  brute. 
He  may  try  to  play  even,  although  there's  no  real 
courage  in  his  kind.  They're  born  bushwhackers," 
The  Laird  glanced  at  his  watch  and  saw  that  it  still 
lacked  eight  minutes  of  train-time.  "Wait  for  me 
a  minute,"  he  told  his  son.  "I  want  to  telephone  Daney 
on  a  little  matter  I  overlooked  this  afternoon." 

He  entered  the  telephone-booth  in  the  station  and 
called  up  Andrew  Daney. 

"McKay e  speaking,"  he  announced.  "I've  just  dis 
covered  Donald  has  an  enemy — that  Greek,  Chirakes, 
from  Darrow.  Did  Dirty  Dan  come  in  from  the  woods 
to-night?" 

"I  believe  he  did.    He  usually  comes  in  at  week-ends." 

"Look  him  up  immediately,  and  tell  him  to  keep  an 
eye  on  Donald,  and  not  to  let  him  out  of  his  sight 
until  the  boy  boards  the  logging-train  to-morrow  night 
to  go  back  to  the  woods.  Same  thing  next  week-end, 
and  when  Donald  completes  his  tour  of  duty  in  the 
woods,  transfer  Dan  from  the  logging-camp  and  give 
him  a  job  in  the  mill,  so  he  can  watch  over  the  boy 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  107 

when  he's  abroad  nights.  He  is  not,  of  course,  to  let 
my  son  know  he  is  under  surveillance." 

"I  will  attend  to  the  matter  immediately,"  Daney 
promised,  and  The  Laird,  much  relieved,  hung  up  and 
rejoined  his  son. 

"Take  care  of  yourself — and  watch  that  Greek,  boy," 
he  cautioned,  as  he  swung  aboard  the  train. 

Donald  stood  looking  after  the  train  until  the  tail- 
lights  had  disappeared  round  a  curve. 


XII 


DANEY  readily  discovered  in  a  pool-hall  the  man 
he  sought.  "Dirty  Dan"  O'Leary  was  a  chopper 
in  the  McKaye  employ,  and  had  earned  his  sobriquet, 
not  because  he  was  less  cleanly  than  the  average  lum 
ber-jack  but  because  he  was  what  his  kind  described  as 
a  "dirty"  fighter.  That  is  to  say,  when  his  belligerent 
disposition  led  him  into  battle,  which  it  frequently  did, 
Mr.  O'Leary's  instinct  was  to  win,  quickly  and  decis 
ively,  and  without  consideration  of  the  niceties  of  com 
bat,  for  a  primitive  person  was  Dirty  Dan.  Fast  as  a 
panther,  he  was  as  equally  proficient  in  the  use  of  all 
his  extremities,  and,  if  hard  pressed,  would  use  his  teeth. 
He  was  a  stringy,  big-boned  man  of  six  feet,  and  much 
too  tall  for  his  weight,  wherefore  belligerent  strangers 
were  sometimes  led  to  the  erroneous  conclusion  that  Mr. 
O'Learjr  would  not  be  hard  to  upset.  In  short,  he  was 
a  wild,  bad  Irishman  who  had  gotten  immovably  fixed 
in  his  head  an  idea  that  old  Hector  McKaye  was  a 
"gr-rand  gintleman,"  and  a  gr-rand  gintleman  was 
one  of  the  three  things  that  Dirty  Dan  would  fight  for, 
the  other  two  being  his  personal  safety  and  the  love  of 
battle. 

Daney  drew  Dirty  Dan  out  of  the  pool-hall  and  ex 
plained  the  situation  to  him.  The  knowledge  that  The 
Laird  had,  in  his  extremity,  placed  reliance  on  him 
moved  Dirty  Dan  to  the  highest  pitch  of  enthusiasm  and 
loyalty.  He  pursed  his  lips,  winked  one  of  his  piggy 

108 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  109 

eyes  craftily,  and,  without  wasting  time  in  words  of 
assurance,  set  forth  in  search  of  the  man  he  was  to 
follow  and  protect.  Presently  he  saw  Donald  entering 
the  butcher  shop;  so  he  stationed  himself  across  the 
street  and  watched  the  young  laird  of  Tyee  purchase  a 
fowl  and  walk  out  with  it  under  his  arm.  Keeping  his 
man  dimly  in  view  through  the  gloom,  Dirty  Dan,  from 
the  opposite  side  of  the  street,  followed  on  velvet  feet 
to  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  where  Donald  turned  and 
took  a  path  through  some  vacant  lots,  arriving  at  last 
at  the  Sawdust  Pile.  Dirty  Dan  heard  him  open  and 
close  the  gate  to  Caleb  Brent's  garden. 

"Oh,  ho,  the  young  divil!"  Dirty  Dan  murmured, 
and  immediately  left  the  path,  padding  softly  out  into 
the  grass  in  order  that,  when  the  door  of  Caleb  Brent's 
house  should  be  opened,  the  light  from  within  might  not 
shine  forth  and  betray  him.  After  traversing  a  dozen 
steps,  he  lay  down  in  the  grass  and  set  himself  patiently 
to  await  the  reappearance  of  his  quarry. 

In  response  to  several  clearly  audible  knocks,  the 
front  door  failed  to  open,  and  Dirty  Dan  heard  Don 
walk  round  the  house  to  the  back  door. 

"The  young  divil !"  he  reiterated  to  himself.  "Faith, 
whin  the  cat's  away  the  mice'il  play,  an*  divil  a  worrd 
o'  lie  in  that!  Begorra,  I'm  thinkin'  the  ould  gintle- 
man'd  be  scandalized  could  he  know  where  his  darlin' 
bhoy  is  this  minute — here,  wait  a  minute  Daniel,  ye  gos 
soon.  Maybe,  'tis  for  this  I've  been  sint  to  watch  the 
lad  an*  not  for  to  protect  him.  If  it  is,  faith  'tis  a  job 
I'm  not  wishful  for,  shpyin'  on  me  own  boss."  He 
pondered  the  matter.  Then:  "Well,  sorra  wan  o*  me 
knows.  What  if  the  young  fella  do  be  in  love  wit'  her 
an'  his  father  have  wind  of  it!  Eh?  What  thin, 


110  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

Daniel?  A  scandal,  that's  what,  an',  be  the  toe-nails 
o'  Moses,  nayther  The  Laird  nor  his  son  can  afford 
that.  I'll  take  note  o'  what  happens,  but,  be  the  same 
token,  'tis  not  to  Misther  Daney  I'll  make  me  report, 
but  to  the  ould  man  himself.  Sh — what's  that?" 

His  ear  being  close  to  the  ground,  Dirty  Dan  had 
caught  the  sound  of  slow,  cautious  footsteeps  advancing 
along  the  little  path.  He  flattened  himself  in  the  grass 
and  listened,  the  while  he  hoped  fervently  that  those 
who  walked  the  path  (for  he  knew  now  there  were  more 
than  one)  would  not  leave  it  as  he  had  done  and  at  the 
same  point.  Should  they  inadvertently  tread  upon 
him,  Dirty  Dan  felt  that  the  honor  of  the  McKaye 
family  and  the  maintenance  of  the  secret  of  his  present 
employment  would  demand  instant  and  furious  battle — 
on  suspicion. 

The  unknown  pedestrians  paused  in  the  path. 

"Ah  done  toP  you-all  Ah'm  right,"  Dirty  Dan  heard 
one  of  them  say. 

"Ha !"  thought  Dirty  Dan.  "A  dirrty  black  naygur ! 
I  can  tell  be  the  v'ice  of  him." 

One  of  his  companions  grunted,  and  another  said, 
in  accents  which  the  astute  Mr.  O'Leary  correctly 
judged  to  be  those  of  a  foreigner  of  some  sort: 

"All  right.  Wen  he's  come  out,  we  jumpa  right 
here.  Wha's  matter,  eh?" 

"Suits  me,"  the  negro  replied.  "Let's  set  down,  an' 
fo'  de  Lawd's  sake,  keep  quite  'twell  he  come." 

Dirty  Dan  heard  them  move  off  to  the  other  side  of 
the  path  and  sit  down  in  the  grass. 

"So  'tis  that  big  buck  yeller  naygur  from  Darrow  an' 
two  o'  the  Greeks,"  he  mused.  "An'  God  knows  I  never 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  111 

did  like  fightin'  in  the  dark.  They'll  knife  me  as  sure 
as  pussy  is  a  cat." 

Decidedly,  the  prospect  did  not  appeal  to  Dirty 
Dan.  However,  he  had  his  orders  to  protect  The 
Laird's  son ;  he  had  his  own  peculiar  notions  of  honor, 
and  in  his  wild  Irish  heart  there  was  not  one  drop  of 
craven  blood.  So  presently,  with  the  stealth  of  an 
animal,  he  crawled  soundlessly  away  until  he  judged 
it  would  be  safe  for  him  to  stand  up  and  walk,  which 
he  did  with  infinite  caution. 

He  reached  the  gate,  passed  like  a  wraith  through 
it,  and  round  to  the  side  of  Caleb  Brent's  home,  in 
momentary  dread  of  discovery  by  a  dog.  He  breathed  a 
sigh  of  relief  when,  the  outcry  failing  to  materialize,  he 
decided  the  Brents  were  too  poor  to  maintain  a  dog; 
whereupon  he  filled  his  pipe,  lighted  it,  leaned  up  against 
the  house,  and,  for  the  space  of  an  hour,  stood  en 
tranced,  for  from  Caleb  Brent's  poor  shanty  there 
floated  the  voice  of  an  angel,  singing  to  the  notes  of 
a  piano. 

"Glory  be!"  murmured  the  amazed  Daniel.  "Sure, 
if  that's  what  the  young  fella  hears  whin  he  calls,  divil 
a  bit  do  I  blame  him.  Oh,  the  shweet  v'ice  of  her — an' 
singin'  'The  Low-backed  Car' !" 

Despite  the  wicked  work  ahead  of  him,  Dirty  Dan 
was  glad  of  the  ill  fortune  which  had  sent  him  hither. 
He  had  in  full  measure  the  Gael's  love  o:  music,  and 
when,  at  length,  the  singing  ceased  and  reluctantly 
he  made  up  his  mind  that  the  concert  was  over,  he  was 
thrilled  to  a  point  of  exaltation. 

"Begorra,  I  didn't  expect  to  be  piped  into  battle,"  he 
reflected  humorously — and  sought  the  Brent  wood-pile, 
in  which  he  poked  until  his  hard  hands  closed  over  a 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

hard,  sound,  round  piece  of  wood  about  three  feet 
long.  He  tested  it  across  his  knee,  swung  it  over  his 
head,  and  decided  it  would  do. 

"Now  thin,  for  the  surprise  party,"  he  reflected 
grimly,  and  walked  boldly  to  the  gate,  which  he  opened 
and  closed  with  sufficient  vigor  to  advertise  his  coming, 
even  if  his  calked  boots  on  the  hard  path  had  not 
already  heralded  his  advance.  However,  Dirty  Dan 
desired  to  make  certain ;  so  he  pursed  his  lips  and 
whistled  softly  the  opening  bars  of  "The  Low-backed 
Car"  in  the  hope  that  the  lilting  notes  would  still  fur 
ther  serve  to  inculcate  in  the  lurking  enemy  the  impres 
sion  that  he  was  a  lover  returning  well  content  from  his 
tryst.  As  he  sauntered  along,  he  held  his  bludgeon  in 
readiness  while  his  keen  eyes  searched — and  presently  he 
made  out  the  crouching  figures. 

"The  naygur  first — to  hold  me,  whilst  the  Greeks 
slip  a  dirk  in  me,"  he  decided  shrewdly. 

He  heard  the  scuttering  rush  start,  and,  with  the 
shock  of  combat,  his  carefully  prearranged  plan  of 
battle  quite  fled  his  mercurial  mind.  He  met  the  charge 
with  a  joyous  screech,  forgot  that  he  had  a  club,  and 
kicked  viciously  out  with  his  right  foot.  His  heavy  log 
ger's  boots  connected  with  something  soft  and  yielding, 
which  instinct  told  Mr.  O'Leary  was  an  abdomen;  in 
stinct,  coupled  with  experience,  informed  him  further 
that  no  mar.  could  assimilate  that  mighty  kick  in  the 
abdomen  and  yet  remain  perpendicular,  whereupon 
Dirty  Dan  leaped  high  in  the  air  and  came  down  with 
both  terrible  calked  boots  on  something  which  gave 
slightly  under  him  and  moaned.  On  the  instant,  he  re 
ceived  a  light  blow  in  the  breast  and  knew  he  had  been 
stabbed. 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  113 

He  remembered  his  club  now;  as  he  backed  away 
swiftly,  he  swung  it,  and,  from  the  impact,  concluded 
he  had  struck  a  neck  or  shoulder.  That  was  the  luck 
of  night-fighting;  so,  with  a  bitter  curse,  Dirty  Dan 
swung  again,  in  the  pious  hope  of  connecting  with  a 
skull;  he  scored  a  clean  miss  and  was,  by  the  tremen 
dous  force  of  his  swing,  turned  completely  round.  Be 
fore  he  could  recover  his  balance,  a  hand  grasped  his 
ankle  and  he  came  down  heavily  on  his  face;  instantly, 
his  assailant's  knees  were  pressed  into  his  back.  With 
a  mighty  heave  he  sought  to  free  himself,  at  the  same 
time  flinging  both  long  legs  upward,  after  the  fashion 
of  one  who  strives  to  kick  himself  in  the  small  of  the 
back;  whereupon  a  knife  drove  deep  into  his  instep, 
and  he  realized  he  had  not  acted  a  split  second  too  soon 
to  save  himself  from  a  murderous  thrust  in  the  kidneys 
— a  Greek's  favorite  blow. 

In  battle,  Dirty  Dan's  advantage  lay  always  in  his 
amazing  speed  and  the  terrible  fury  of  his  attack  dur 
ing  the  first  five  minutes.  Even  as  he  threw  up  his 
feet,  he  drew  back,  an  elbow  and  crashed  it  into  his 
enemy's  ribs ;  like  a  flash,  his  arm  straightened,  and  his 
sinewy  hand  closed  over  the  wrist  of  an  arm  that 
struggled  in  vain  to  strike  downward.  Holding  that 
wrist  securely,  Dirty  Dan  heaved  upward,  got  his  left 
elbow  under  his  body,  and  rested  a  few  moments ;  an-* 
other  mighty  heave,  and  he  tossed  off  the  Greek,  and, 
whirling  with  the  speed  of  a  pin-wheel,  was  on  top  of 
his  man.  He  had  momentarily  released  his  hold  on  the 
Greek's  wrist,  however,  and  he  had  to  fight  for  another 
hold  now — in  the  dark.  Presently  he  captured  it, 
twisted  the  arm  in  the  terrible  hammer-lock,  and  broke 
it;  then,  while  the  Greek  lay  writhing  in  agony,  Mr. 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

O'Leary  leaped  to  his  feet  and  commenced  to  play  with 
his  awful  boots  a  devil's  tatoo  on  that  portion  of  his 
enemy's  superstructure  so  frequently  alluded  to  in 
pugilistic  circles  as  "the  slats."  After  five  or  six  kicks, 
however,  he  paused,  due  to  a  difficulty  in  breathing;  so 
he  struck  a  match  and  surveyed  the  stricken  field. 

The  big  mulatto  and  two  Greeks  lay  unconscious  be 
fore  him ;  in  the  flickering  light  of  the  match,  two  blood 
stained  dirks  gleamed  in  the  grass,  so,  with  a  minute 
attention  to  detail,  Dirty  Dan  possessed  himself  of 
these  weapons,  picked  up  his  club,  and,  reasoning 
shrewdly  that  Donald  McKaye's  enemies  had  had 
enough  combat  for  a  few  weeks  at  least,  the  dauntless 
fellow  dragged  the  fallen  clear  of  the  path,  in  order 
that  his  youthful  master  might  not  stumble  over  them 
on  his  way  home,  and  then  disappeared  into  the  night. 
Half  and  hour  later,  smeared  with  dust  and  blood,  he 
crawled  up  the  steps  of  the  Tyee  Lumber  Company's 
hospital  on  his  hands  and  knees  and  rapped  feebly  on 
the  front  door.  The  night  nurse  came  out  and  looked 
him  over. 

"I'm  Dirty  Dan  O'Leary,"  he  wheezed;  "I've  been 
fightin'  agin." 

The  nurse  called  the  doctor  and  two  orderlies,  and 
they  carried  him  into  the  operating-room. 

"I'm  not  the  man  I  used  to  be,"  Dirty  Dan  whispered, 
"but  glory  be,  ye  should  see  the  other  fellers."  He 
opened  his  hand,  and  two  blood-stained  clasp-knives 
rolled  out;  he  winked  knowingly,  and  indulged  in 
humorous  reminiscences  of  the  combat  while  he  was 
being  examined. 

"You're  cut  to  strings  and  ribbons,  Dan,"  the  doctor 
informed  him,  "and  they've  stuck  you  in  the  left  lung. 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  115 

You've  lost  a  lot  of  blood.  We  may  pull  you  through, 
but  I  doubt  it." 

"Very  well,"  the  demon  replied  composedly. 

"Telephone  Judge  Alton  to  come  and  get  his  dying 
statement,"  the  doctor  ordered  the  nurse,  but  Dirty 
Dan  raised  a  deprecating  hand. 

"  'Twas  a  private,  personal  matther,"  he  declared. 
"  'Twas  settled  satisfacthory.  I'll  not  die,  an'  I'll  talk 
to  no  man  but  Misther  Daney.  Sew  me  up  an'  plug  me 
lung,  an'  be  quick  about  it,  Docthor." 

When  Andrew  Daney  came,  summoned  by  telephone, 
Dirty  Dan  ordered  all  others  from  the  room,  and  Daney 
saw  that  the  door  was  closed  tightly  after  them.  Then 
he  bent  over  Dirty  Dan. 

"Where's  Donald?"  he  demanded. 

"That's  neither  here  nor  there,  sir,"  Mr.  O'Leary 
replied  evasively.  "He's  safe,  an*  never  knew  they 
were  afther  him.  T'ree  o'  thim,  sir,  the  naygur  and 
two  Greeks.  I  kidded  thim  into  thinkin'  I  was  Misther 
McKaye;  'tis  all  over  now,  an'  ye  can  find  out  what 
two  Greeks  it  was  by  those  knives  I  took  for  evidence. 
I  cannot  identify  thim,  but  go  up  to  Darrow  in  the 
mornin'  an'  look  for  a  spreckled  mulatter,  wan  Greek 
wit'  a  broken  right  arm,  an'  another  wit'  a  broken 
neck,  but  until  I  die,  do  nothin'.  If  I  get  well,  tell  them 
to  quit  Darrow  for  good  agin'  the  day  I  come  out 
o'  the  hospital.  Good-night  to  you,  sir,  an'  thank  ye 
for  callin'." 

From  the  hospital,  Andrew  Daney,  avoiding  the 
lighted  main  street,  hastened  to  the  Sawdust  Pile.  A 
light  still  burned  in  Caleb  Brent's  cottage;  so  Daney 
stood  aloof  in  the  vacant  lot  and  waited.  About  ten 
o'clock,  the  front  door  opened,  and,  framed  in  the  light 


116  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

of  the  doorwa}^,  the  general  manager  saw  Donald  Mc- 
Kaye,  and  beside  him  Nan  Brent. 

"Until  to-morrow  at  five,  Donald,  since  you  will  per 
sist  in  being  obstinate,"  he  heard  Nan  say,  as  they 
reached  the  gate  and  paused  there.  "Good-night,  dear." 

Andrew  Daney  waited  no  longer,  but  turned  and 
fled  into  the  darkness. 


xm 

HAVING  done  that  which  her  conscience  dictated, 
Nan  Brent  returned  to  her  home  a  prey  to  many 
conflicting  emotions,  chief  of  which  were  a  quiet  sense 
of  exaltation  in  the  belief  that  she  had  played  fair  by 
both  old  Hector  and  his  son,  and  a  sense  of  depression 
in  the  knowledge  that  she  would  not  see  Donald  McKaye 
again.  As  a  boy,  she  had  liked  him  tremendously;  as 
a  man,  she  knew  she  liked  him  even  better. 

She  was  quite  certain  she  had  never  met  a  man  who 
was  quite  fit  to  breathe  the  same  air  with  Donald 
McKaye;  already  she  had  magnified  his  virtues  until, 
to  her,  he  was  rapidly  assuming  the  aspect  of  an  arch 
angel — a  feeling  which  bordered  perilously  on  ado 
ration. 

But  deep  down  in  her  woman's  heart  she  was  afraid, 
fearing  for  her  own  weakness.  The  past  had  brought 
her  sufficient  anguish — she  dared  not  risk  a  future  filled 
with  unsatisfied  yearning  that  comes  of  a  great  love 
suppressed  or  denied. 

She  felt  better  about  it  as  she  walked  homeward; 
it  seemed  that  she  had  regained,  in  a  measure,  some 
peace  of  mind,  and  as  she  prepared  dinner  for  her 
father  and  her  child,  she  was  almost  cheerful.  A  warm 
glow  of  self-complacency  enveloped  her.  Later,  when 
old  Caleb  and  the  boy  had  retired  and  she  sat  before 
the  little  wood  fire  alone  with  her  thoughts,  this  feeling 
of  self-conscious  rectitude  slowly  left  her,  and  into 

117 


118  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

its  place  crept  a  sense  of  desolation  inspired  by  one 
thought  that  obtruded  upon  her  insistently,  no  matter 
how  desperately  she  drove  her  mind  to  consider  other 
things.  She  was  not  to  see  him  again — no,  never  any 
more.  Those  fearless,  fiery  gray  eyes  that  were  all 
abeam  with  tenderness  and  complete  understanding  that 
day  he  left  her  at  the  gate ;  those  features  that  no  one 
would  ever  term  handsome,  yet  withal  so  rugged,  so 
strong,  so  pregnant  of  character,  so  peculiarly  winning 
when  lighted  by  the  infrequent  smile — she  was  never  to 
gaze  upon  them  again.  It  did  not  seem  quite  fair  that, 
for  all  that  the  world  had  denied  her,  it  should  withhold 
from  her  this  inconsequent  delight.  This  was  carrying 
misfortune  too  far ;  it  was  terrible  —  unbearable 
almost 

A  wave  of  self-pity,  the  most  acute  misery  of  a  tor 
tured  soul,  surged  over  her;  she  laid  her  fair  head 
on  her  arms  outspread  upon  the  table,  and  gave  her 
self  up  to  wild  sobbing.  In  her  desolation,  she  called 
aloud,  piteously,  for  that  mother  she  had  hardly  known, 
as  if  she  would  fain  summon  that  understanding  spirit 
and  in  her  arms  seek  the  comfort  that  none  other  in 
this  world  could  give  her.  So  thoroughly  did  she  aban 
don  herself  to  this  first — and  final — paroxysm  of  de 
spair  that  she  failed  to  hear  a  tentative  rap  upon  the 
front  door  and,  shortly,  the  tread  of  rough-shod  feet 
on  the  board  walk  round  the  house.  Her  first  intima 
tion  that  some  one  had  arrived  to  comfort  her  came  in 
the  shape  of  a  hard  hand  that  thrust  itself  gently  under 
her  chin  and  lifted  her  face  from  her  arms. 

Through  the  mist  of  her  tears  she  saw  only  the 
vague  outlines  of  a  man  clad  in  heavy  woolen  shirt  and 
mackinaw,  such  as  her  father  frequently  wore. 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  119 

"Oh,  father,  father!"  she  cried  softly,  and  laid  her 
head  on  his  breast,  while  her  arms  went  round  his  neck. 
"I'm  so  terribly  unhappy!  I  can't  bear  it — I  can't! 
Just — because  he  chose  to  be — kind  to  us — those  gos 
sips — as  if  anybody  could  help  being  fond  of  him " 

She  was  held  tight  in  his  arms. 

"Not  your  father,  Nan."  Donald  murmured  in  a 
low  voice. 

She  drew  away  from  him  with  a  sharp  little  cry  of 
amazement  and  chagrin,  but  his  great  arms  closed 
round  her  and  drew  her  close  again. 

"Poor  dear,"  he  told  her,  "you  were  calling  for  your 
mother.  You  wanted  a  breast  to  weep  upon,  didn't 
you?  Well,  mine  is  here  for  you." 

"Oh,  sweetheart,  you  musn't !"  she  cried  passionately, 
her  lips  unconsciously  framing  the  unspoken  cry  of  her 
heart  as  she  strove  to  escape  from  him. 

"Ah,  but  I  shall !"  he  answered.  "You've  called  me 
'sweetheart,'  and  that  gives  me  the  right."  And  he  kissed 
her  hot  cheek  and  laughed  the  light,  contented  little 
laugh  of  the  conqueror,  nor  could  all  her  frantic  plead 
ings  and  struggling  prevail  upon  him  to  let  her  go.  In 
the  end,  she  did  the  obvious,  the  human  thing.  She 
clasped  him  tightly  round  the  neck,  and,  forgetting 
everything  in  the  consuming  wonder  of  the  fact  that  this 
man  loved  her  with  a  profound  and  holy  love,  she 
weakly  gave  herself  up  to  his  caresses,  satisfying  her 
heart-hunger  for  a  few  blessed,  wonderful  moments  be 
fore  hardening  herself  to  the  terrible  task  of  impress 
ing  upon  him  the  hopelessness  of  it  all  and  sending 
him  upon  his  way.  By  degrees,  she  cried  herself  dry- 
eyed  and  leaned  against  him,  striving  to  collect  her 
dazed  thoughts.  And  then  he  spoke. 


120  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

"I  know  what  you're  going  to  say,  dear.  From  a 
wordly  point  (  f  view,  you  are  quite  right.  Seemingly, 
without  volition  on  our  part,  we  have  evolved  a  dis 
tressing,  an  impossible  situation " 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad  that  you  understand !"  she  gasped. 

"And  yet,"  he  continued  soberly,  "love  such  as  ours 
is  not  a  light  thing  to  be  passed  lightly  by.  To  me, 
Nan  Brent,  you  are  sacred;  to  you,  I  yearn  to  be  all 
things  that — the — other  man  was  not.  I  didn't  realize 
until  I  entered  unannounced  and  found  you  so  desolate 
that  I  loved  you.  For  two  weeks  you  have  been  con 
stantly  in  my  thoughts,  and  I  know  now  that,  after 
all,  you  were  my  boyhood  sweetheart." 

"I  know  you  were  mine,"  she  agreed  brokenly.  "But 
that's  just  a  little  tender  memory  now,  even  if  we  said 
nothing  about  it  then.  We  are  children  no  longer, 
Donald  dear;  we  must  be  strong  and  not  surrender  to 
our  selfish  love." 

"I  do  not  regard  it  as  selfish,"  he  retorted  soberly. 
"It  seems  most  perfectly  natural  and  inevitable.  Why, 
Nan,  I  didn't  even  pay  you  the  preliminary  compli 
ment  of  telling  you  I  loved  you  or  asking  you  if  you 
reciprocated  my  affection.  It  appeared  to  me  I  didn't 
have  to ;  that  it  was  a  sort  of  mutual  understanding 
— for  here  we  are.  It  seems  it  just  was  to  be — like 
the  law  of  gravitation." 

She  smiled  up  at  him,  despite  her  mental  pain. 

"I'm  not  so  certain,  dear,"  she  answered,  "that  I'm 
not  wicked  enough  to  rejoice.  It  will  make  our  renun 
ciation  all  the  easier — for  me.  I  have  known  great 
sorrow,  but  to-night,  for  a  little  while,  I  have  surren 
dered  myself  to  great  happiness,  and  nothing — noth 
ing — can  ever  rob  me  of  the  last  shred  of  that.  You 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

are  my  man,  Donald.  The  knowledge  that  you  love 
me  is  going  to  draw  much  of  the  sting  out  of  existence. 
I  know  I  cannot  possess  you,  but  I  can  resign  myself 
to  that  and  not  be  embittered." 

"Well,"  he  answered  dully,  "I  can  give  you  up — 
because  I  have  to ;  but  I  shall  never  be  resigned  about 
it,  and  I  fear  I  may  be  embittered.  Is  there  no  hope, 
Nan?" 

"A  faint  one — some  day,  perhaps,  if  I  outlive  an 
other." 

"I'll  wait  for  that  day,  Nan.  Meanwhile,  I  shall  ask 
no  questions.  I  love  you  enough  to  accept  your  love 
on  faith,  for,  by  God,  you're  a  good  woman!" 

Her  eyes  shown  with  a  wonderful  radiance  as  she 
drew  his  face  down  to  hers  and  kissed  him  on  the  lips. 

"It's  sweet  of  you  to  say  that;  I  could  love  3rou  for 
that  alone,  were  there  nothing  else,  Donald.  But  tell 
me,  dear,  did  you  receive  my  letter?" 

"Yes — and  ignored  it.     That's  why  I'm  here." 

"That  was  a  risk  you  should  not  have  taken.'* 

He  looked  thoughtfully  at  the  multicolored  flame 
of  the  driftwood  fire. 

"Well,  you  see,  Nan,  it  didn't  occur  to  me  that  I  was 
taking  a  risk;  a  confession  of  love  was  the  last  thing 
I  would  have  thought  would  happen." 

"Then  why  did  you  disregard  that  letter  that  cost 
me  such  an  effort  to  write?" 

"Well,"  he  replied  slowly,  "I  guess  it's  because  I'm 
the  captain  of  my  soul — or  try  to  be,  at  any  rate.  I 
didn't  think  it  quite  fair  that  you  should  be  shunned; 
it  occurred  to  me  that  I  wouldn't  be  playing  a  manly 
part  to  permit  the  idle  mewing  of  the  Port  Agnew 
tabbies  to  frighten  me  away.  I  didn't  intend  to  fall  in 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

love  with  you —  Oh,  drat  my  reasons!  I'm  here  be 
cause  I'm  here.  And  in  the  matter  of  that  old  hen — " 
He  paused  and  favored  her  with  a  quizzical  smile. 

"YesP" 

"I  brought  a  substitute  hen  with  me — all  ready  for 
the  pot,  and  if  I  can't  come  to  dinner  to-morrow,  I'm 
going  to  face  a  very  lonely  Sunday." 

"You  ridiculous  boy!  Of  course  you  may  come, 
although  it  must  be  the  final  visit.  You  realize  that 
we  owe  it  to  ourselves  not  to  make  our  burden  heavier 
than  it's  going  to  be." 

He  nodded. 

"  'Eat,  drink  and  be  merry,  for  to-morrow  we  may 
be  dead,'  "  he  quoted.  "Let's  sit  down  and  talk  it  over. 
I  haven't  sat  in  front  of  a  driftwood  fire  since  I  was 
a  boy.  Queer  how  the  salt  in  the  wood  colors  the 
flames,  isn't  it?" 

It  occurred  to  her  for  a  fleeting  moment  that  they 
two  were  driftwood,  and  that  the  salt  of  their  tears 
would  color  their  lives  as  the  years  consumed  them.  But 
she  banished  from  her  mind  all  thought  of  everything 
save  the  present.  With  a  contented  little  sigh  she 
seated  herself  beside  him;  her  hand  stole  into  his  and, 
soothed  and  sustained  by  the  comforting  touch,  each 
of  the  other,  gradually  the  first  terror  of  their  predica 
ment  faded;  ere  long,  Donald  reminded  her  of  her 
promise,  and  she  stole  to  the  old  square  piano  and 
sang  for  him  while,  without,  Dirty  Dan  O'Leary 
crouched  in  the  darkness  and  thrilled  at  the  rippling 
melody. 

At  ten  o'clock,  when  Donald  left  the  Sawdust  Pile, 
he  and  Nan  had  arrived  at  a  firm  determination  to 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

follow  separate  paths,  nor  seek  to  level  the  barrier 
that  circumstance  had  raised  between  them. 

"Some  day — perhaps,"  he  whispered,  as  he  held  her 
to  his  heart  in  the  dark  at  the  garden  gate.  "While 
I  live,  I  shall  love  you.  Good-by,  old  sweetheart!" 


XIV 


fin  RUE  to  his  promise,  Daniel  P.  O'Leary  declined 
A  to  die  that  night. 

"Confound  your  belligerent  soul!"  the  doctor 
growled  at  dawn.  "I  believe  you're  too  mean  to  die." 

"We'll  make  it  a  finish  fight,"  whispered  Daniel. 

"I'll  go  you,"  the  doctor  answered,  and  sent  for 
digitalis  and  salt  solution. 

There  was  one  other  soul  in  Port  Agnew  who  did 
not  sleep  that  night,  either.  Andrew  Daney's  soul, 
shaken  by  what  was  to  him  a  cosmic  cataclysm,  caused 
that  good  man  to  rise  at  five  o'clock  and  go  down  to 
the  hospital  for  another  look  at  Dirty  Dan.  To  his 
anxious  queries  the  doctor  shook  a  dubious  head,  but 
the  indomitable  O'Leary  smiled  wanly. 

"Go  on  wit'  ye!"  he  wheezed  faintly.  "I'll  win  be 
a  hair-line  decision." 

At  seven  o'clock,  when  the  telegraph-station  opened, 
Andrew  Daney  was  waiting  at  the  door.  He  entered 
and  sent  a  telegram  to  The  Laird. 

Return  immediately. 

In  the  late  afternoon,  Hector  McKaye  returned  to 
Port  Agnew  and  at  once  sought  Daney,  who  related 
to  him  exactly  what  had  occurred.  The  shadow  of  pro 
found  worry  settled  over  The  Laird's  face. 

"Dan  refuses  to  disclose  anything  regarding  Don- 
124 


KINDllED  OF  THE  DUST  125 

aid's  movements,"  Daney  continued,  "where  he  followed 
the  boy  or  where  the  fight  took  place.  I  only  know 
that  Donald  was  not  present ;  Dan,  fortunately,  over 
heard  the  plot,  inculcated,  by  some  means,  the  idea  in 
those  scoundrels'  heads  that  he  was  Donald,  and  took 
the  fight  off  the  boy's  hands.  He  claimed  he  fought  a 
winning  fight,  and  he  is  right.  The  mulatto  died  in 
Darrow  this  morning.  One  of  the  Greeks  has  a 
smashed  shoulder,  and  the  other  a  broken  arm  and 
four  broken  ribs.  How  they  ever  got  home  to  Darrow 
is  a  mystery." 

"The  third  Greek  must  have  waited  near  the  river- 
mouth  with  a  boat,  Andrew.  Have  you  any  idea  where 
Donald  spent  the  evening?" 

"Yes,  sir;  but  he's  free,  white,  and  twenty-one,  and 
lie's  my  superior.  I  prefer  not  to  discuss  his  move 
ments." 

"Andrew,  I  command  you  to." 

"I  refuse  to  be  commanded,  sir." 

"That's  all  I  wanted  to  know.  He  visited  the  Brents, 
and  you  know  it."  He  saw  by  the  flush  on  Daney 's 
old  face  that  he  had  hit  the  mark.  "Well,  I'm  obliged 
to  you,  Andrew.  You've  done  your  full  duty ;  so  we'll 
not  discuss  the  matter  further.  The  situation  will 
develop  in  time,  and,  meanwhile,  I'll  not  spy  on  my 
boy.  I  wonder  if  that  Darrow  gang  will  talk." 

"I  imagine  not,  sir — that  is,  if  Dirty  Dan  keeps 
his  own  counsel.  They  will  fear  prosecution  if  Dan 
dies ;  so  they  will  be  silent  awaiting  the  outcome  of  his 
injuries.  If  he  lives,  they  will  still  remain  silent,  await 
ing  his  next  move.  Dan  will  probably  admit  having 
been  jumped  in  the  dark  by  three  unknown  men  and 
that  he  defended  himself  vigorously;  he  can  fail  to 


126  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

identify  the  Greeks,  and  the  Greeks  cannot  do  less  than 
fail  to  identify  Dirty  Dan,  who  can  plead  self-defense 
if  the  coroner's  jury  delves  too  deeply  into  the  mulat 
to's  death.  I  imagine  they  will  not.  At  any  rate,  it's 
up  to  Dan  whether  Donald  figures  in  the  case  or  not, 
and  Dan  will  die  before  he'll  betray  the  confidence." 

"That's  comforting,"  The  Laird  replied.  "Will 
you  be  good  enough  to  drive  me  home  to  The  Dream- 
erie,  Andrew?" 

At  The  Dreamerie,  old  Hector  discovered  that  his 
son  had  left  the  house  early  in  the  afternoon,  saying 
he  would  not  be  home  for  dinner.  So  The  Laird  sat 
him  down  and  smoked  and  gazed  out  across  the  Bight 
of  Tyee  until  sunset,  when,  a  vague  curiosity  possess 
ing  him,  he  looked  down  to  the  Sawdust  Pile  and 
observed  that  the  flag  still  flew  from  the  cupola.  The 
night  shadows  gathered,  but  still  the  flag  did  not  come 
down ;  and  presently  round  The  Laird's  grim  mouth  a 
little  prescient  smile  appeared,  with  something  of  pain 
in  it. 

"Dining  out  at  Brent's,"  he  soliloquized,  "and 
they're  so  taken  up  with  each  other  they've  forgotten 
the  flag.  I  do  not  remember  that  the  Brent  girl  ever 
forgot  it  before.  She  loves  him." 


XV 


"C^OLLOWING  his  parting  with  Nan  Brent  on  Sat- 
A  urday  night,  Donald  McKaye  went  directly  to 
the  mill  office,  in  front  of  which  his  car  was  parked, 
entered  the  car,  and  drove  home  to  The  Dreamerie, 
quite  oblivious  of  the  fact  that  he  was  not  the  only 
man  in  Port  Agnew  who  had  spent  an  interesting  and 
exciting  evening.  So  thoroughly  mixed  were  his  emo 
tions  that  he  was  not  quite  certain  whether  he  was 
profoundly  happy  or  incurably  wretched.  When  he 
gave  way  to  rejoicing  in  his  new-found  love,  straight 
way  he  was  assailed  by  a  realization  of  the  barriers 
to  his  happiness — a  truly  masculine  recognition  of  the 
terrible  bar  sinister  to  Nan's  perfect  wifehood  induced 
a  veritable  shriveling  of  his  soul,  a  mental  agony  all 
the  more  intense  because  it  was  the  first  unhappiness 
he  had  ever  experienced. 

His  distress  was  born  of  the  knowledge  that  between 
the  Sawdust  Pile  and  The  Dreamerie  there  stretched 
a  gulf  as  wide  and  deep  as  the  Bight  of  Tyee.  He 
was  bred  of  that  puritanical  stock  which  demands  that 
the  mate  for  a  male  of  its  blood  must  be  of  original 
purity,  regardless  of  the  attitude  of  leniency  on  the 
part  of  that  male  for  lapses  from  virtue  in  one  of  his 
own  sex.  This  creed,  Donald  had  accepted  as  naturally, 
as  inevitably  as  he  had  accepted  belief  in  the  com 
munion  of  saints  and  the  resurrection  of  the  dead. 
His  fathers  daughter-in-law,  like  Caesar's  wife,  would 

127 


128  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

have  to  be  above  suspicion ;  while  Donald  believed  Nan 
Brent  to  be  virtuous,  or,  at  least,  an  unconscious,  un 
willing,  and  unpremeditating  sinner,  non-virtuous  by 
circumstance  instead  of  by  her  own  deliberate  act,  he 
was  too  hard-headed  not  to  realize  that  never,  by  the 
grace  of  God,  would  she  be  above  suspicion.  Too  well 
he  realized  that  his  parents  and  his  sisters,  for  whom  he 
entertained  all  the  affection  of  a  good  son  and  brother, 
would,  unhampered  by  sex-appeal  and  controlled  wholly 
by  tradition,  fail  utterly  to  take  the  same  charitable 
view,  even  though  he  was  honest  enough  with  himself 
to  realize  that  perhaps  his  own  belief  in  the  matter 
was  largely  the  result  of  the  wish  being  father  to  the 
thought. 

Curiously  enough,  he  dismissed,  quite  casually,  con 
sideration  of  the  opinions  his  mother  and  sisters,  their 
friends  and  his,  the  men  and  women  of  Port  Agnew 
might  entertain  on  the  subject.  His  apprehensions 
centered  almost  entirely  upon  his  father.  His  affec 
tion  for  his  father  he  had  always  taken  for  granted. 
It  was  not  an  emotion  to  exclaim  over.  Now  that  he 
realized,  for  the  first  time,  his  potential  power  to  hurt 
his  father,  to  bow  that  gray  head  in  grief  and  shame 
and  humiliation,  he  was  vouchsafed  a  clearer,  all-com 
prehending  vision  of  that  father's  love,  of  his  goodness, 
his  manliness,  his  honor,  his  gentleness,  and  his  fierce, 
high  pride ;  to  Donald  simultanec  asly  came  the  knowl 
edge  of  his  own  exalted  love  for  the  old  man.  He  knew 
him  as  no  other  human  being  knew  him  or  ever  would 
know  him;  whence  he  knew  old  Hector's  code — that  a 
clean  man  may  not  mate  with  an  unclean  woman  without 
losing  caste. 

He  and  Nan  had  discussed  the  situation  but  briefly, 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  129 

for  they  were  young,  and  the  glory  of  that  first  perfect 
hour  could  not  be  marred  by  a  minute  consideration  of 
misery  in  prospect.  To-night,  they  had  been  content 
to  forget  the  world  and  be  happy  with  each  other,  ap 
parently  with  the  mutual  understanding  that  they  oc 
cupied  an  untenable  position,  one  that  soon  must  be 
evacuated. 

Yes;  he  was  the  young  laird  of  Tyee,  the  heir  to 
a  principality,  and  it  would  be  too  great  a  strain  on 
mere  human  beings  to  expect  his  little  world  to  ap 
prove  of  its  highest  mating  with  its  lowest.  Prate  as 
we  may  of  democracy,  we  must  admit,  if  we  are  to  le 
honest  with  ourselves,  that  this  sad  old  world  is  a 
snobocracy.  The  very  fact  that  man  is  prone  to  re 
gard  himself  as  superior  to  his  brother  is  the  leaven 
in  the  load  of  civilization ;  without  that  quality, 
whether  we  elect  to  classify  it  as  self-conceit  or  self- 
esteem,  man  would  be  without  ambition  and  our  civiliza 
tion  barren  of  achievement.  The  instinct  for  the  up 
ward  climb — the  desire  to  reach  the  heights — is  too 
insistent  to  be  disregarded.  If  all  men  are  born  equal, 
as  the  framers  of  our  Constitution  so  solemnly  de 
clared,  that  is  because  the  brains  of  all  infants,  of 
whatsoever  degree,  are  at  birth  incapable  of  thought. 
The  democracy  of  any  people,  therefore,  must  be 
predicated  upon  their  kindness  and  charity — human 
characteristics  which  blossom  or  wither  according  to 
the  intensity  of  the  battle  for  existence.  In  our  day 
and  generation,  therefore,  democracy  is  too  high- 
priced  for  promiscuous  dissemination ;  wherefore,  as  in 
an  elder  day,  we  turn  from  the  teaching  of  the  Man  of 
Galilee  and  cling  to  tradition. 

Tradition  was  the  stone  in  the  road  to  Donald  Me- 


130  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

Kaye's  happiness,  and  his  strength  was  not  equal  to 
the  task  of  rolling  it  away. 

Despair  enveloped  him.  Every  fiber  of  his  being, 
every  tender,  gallant  instinct  drew  him  toward  this 
wonder-girl  that  the  world  had  thrust  aside  as  un 
worthy.  His  warm,  sympathetic  heart  ached  for  her; 
he  knew  she  needed  him  as  women  like  her  must  ever 
need  the  kind  of  man  he  wanted  to  be,  the  kind  he  had 
always  striven  to  be.  Had  he  been  egotist  enough  to 
set  a  value  upon  himself,  he  would  have  told  himself 
she  was  worthy  of  him ;  yet  a  damnable  set  of  damnable 
man-made  circumstances  over  which  he  had  no  control 
hedged  them  about  and  kept  them  apart.  It  was  ter 
rible,  so  he  reflected,  to  know  that,  even  if  Nan  should 
live  the  life  of  a  saint  from  the  hour  of  her  child's 
birth  until  the  hour  of  her  death,  a  half-century  hence, 
yet  would  she  fail  to  atone  for  her  single  lapse  while 
there  still  lived  one  who  knew — and  remembered.  He, 
Donald  McKaye,  might  live  down  a  natural  son,  but 
Nan  Brent  could  not.  The  contemplation  of  this  social 
phenomenon  struck  him  with  peculiar  force,  for  he 
had  not  hitherto  considered  the  amazing  inequalities 
of  a  double  standard  of  morals. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  could  understand 
the  abject  deference  that  must  be  shown  to  public 
opinion.  He,  who  considered  himself,  and  not  without 
reason,  a  gentleman,  must  defer  to  the  inchoate,  un 
reasoning,  unrelenting,  and  barbaric  point  of  view  of 
men  and  women  who  hadn't  sense  enough  to  pound  sand 
in  a  rat-hole  or  breeding  enough  to  display  a  reasonable 
amount  of  skill  in  the  manipulation  of  a  knife  and  fork. 
Public  opinion !  Bah !  Deference  to  a  fetish,  a  shibbo 
leth,  to  the  ancient,  unwritten  law  that  one  must  not 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  131 

do  that  which  hypocrites  condemn  and  cowards  fear  to 
do,  unless,  indeed,  one  can  "get  away  with  it." 

Ah,  yes !  The  eleventh  commandment :  "Thou  shalt 
not  be  discovered."  It  had  smashed  Nan  Brent,  who 
had  violated  it,  desolated  her,  ruined  her — she  who  had 
but  followed  the  instinct  that  God  Almighty  had  given 
her  at  birth — the  instinct  of  sex,  the  natural  yearn 
ing  of  a  trustful,  loving  heart  for  love,  motherhood, 
and  masculine  protection  from  a  brutal  world.  More. 
Not  satisfied  with  smashing  her,  public  opinion  insisted 
that  she  should  remain  in  a  perennial  state  of  smash. 
It  was  abominable! 

Nan  had  told  him  she  had  never  been  married,  and 
a  sense  of  delicacy  had  indicated  to  him  that  this  was 
a  subject  upon  which  he  must  not  appear  to  be  curi 
ous.  To  question  her  for  the  details  would  have  been 
repugnant  to  his  nicely  balanced  sense  of  the  fitness  of 
things.  Nevertheless,  he  reflected,  if  her  love  had  been 
illicit,  was  it  more  illicit  than  that  of  the  woman  who 
enters  into  a  loveless  marriage,  induced  to  such  action 
by  a  sordid  consideration  of  worldly  goods  and  gear? 
Was  her  sin  in  bearing  a  child  out  of  wedlock  more 
terrible  than  that  of  the  married  woman  who  shud 
ders  at  the  responsibilities  of  motherhood,  or  evades 
the  travail  of  love's  fulfilment  by  snuffing  out  little 
lives  in  embryo?  He  thought  not.  He  recalled  an 
evening  in  New  York  when  he  had  watched  a  police 
man  following  a  drab  of  the  streets  who  sought  to  evade 
him  and  ply  her  sorry  trade  in  the  vicinity  of  Hera!  1 
Square;  he  remembered  how  that  same  policeman  had 
abandoned  the  chase  to  touch  his  cap  respectfully  and 
open  her  limousine  door  for  the  heroine  (God  save  the 
mark!)  of  a  scandalous  divorce. 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

"Damn  it!"  he  murmured.  "It's  a  rotten,  cruel 
world,  and  I  don't  understand  it.  I'm  all  mixed  up." 
And  he  went  to  bed,  where,  his  bodily  weariness  over 
coming  his  mental  depression,  he  slept. 

He  was  man  enough  to  scorn  public  opinion,  but 
human  enough  to  fear  it. 


XVI 

THE  heir  of  the  Tyee  mills  and  forests  was  not  of 
a  religious  turn  of  mind  for  all  his  strict  train 
ing  in  Christian  doctrine,  although  perhaps  it  would 
be  more  to  the  point  to  state  that  he  was  inclined  to 
be  unorthodox.  Nevertheless,  out  of  respect  to  the 
faith  of  his  fathers,  he  rose  that  Sunday  morning  and 
decided  to  go  to  church.  Not  that  he  anticipated 
any  spiritual  benefit  would  accrue  to  him  by  virtue 
of  his  pilgrimage  down  to  Port  Agnew;  in  his  heart 
of  hearts  he  regarded  the  pastor  as  an  old  woman, 
a  man  afraid  of  the  world,  and  without  any  knowl 
edge  of  it,  so  to  speak.  But  old  Hector  was  a  pillar 
of  the  church ;  his  family  had  always  accompanied  him 
thither  on  Sundays,  and  a  sense  of  duty  indicated  to 
Donald  that,  as  the  future  head  of  the  clan,  he  should 
not  alter  its  customs. 

By  a  strange  coincidence,  the  Reverend  Mr.  Tingley 
chose  as  the  text  for  his  sermon  the  eighth  chapter  of 
the  Gospel  according  to  St.  John  from  the  first  to  the 
eleventh  verses,  inclusive.  Donald,  instantly  alert, 
straightened  in  the  pew,  and  prepared  to  listen  with 
interest  to  the  Reverend  Mr.  Tingley's  opinion  of  the 
wisdom  of  Jesus  Christ  in  so  casually  disposing  of  the 
case  of  the  woman  taken  in  adultery. 

"Dearly  beloved,"  the  pastor  began,  carefully  plac 
ing  an  index-finger  between  the  leaves  of  his  Bible 
to  mark  the  passage  he  had  just  read,  "the  title  of  my 

133 


134  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

sermon  this  Sunday  shall  be:  'The  First  Stone.  Let 
him  who  is  without  sin  cast  it.'  ' 

"Banal,  hypocritical  ass!"  Donald  soliloquized. 
"She  was  the  mezzo-soprano  soloist  in  your  choir  four 
years,  and  you  haven't  tried  to  help  her  since  she  came 
back  to  the  Sawdust  Pile." 

It  was  a  good  sermon,  as  sermons  go.  In  fact,  the 
Reverend  Mr.  Tingley,  warming  to  his  theme,  quite 
outdid  himself  on  the  subject  of  charity  as  practised 
by  his  Redeemer,  and,  as  a  result,  was  the  recipient 
of  numberless  congratulatory  handshakes  later  at  the 
church  door.  Donald  agreed  that  it  was  an  unusually 
good  sermon — in  theory;  but  since  he  knew  it  would 
collapse  in  practise,  he  avoided  Mr.  Tingley  after 
service. 

On  the  steps  of  the  church  he  was  accosted  by  An 
drew  Daney  and  the  latter's  wife,  who  greeted  him 
effusively.  Unfortunately  for  Mrs.  Daney,  Nan,  in 
one  of  those  bursts  of  confidence  that  must  ever  exist 
between  lovers,  had  informed  Donald  the  night  previ 
ous  of  the  motherly  soul's  interest  in  his  affairs; 
wherefore  he  returned  Mrs.  Daney's  warm  greeting  with 
such  chilly  courtesy  that  she  was  at  no  loss  to  guess 
the  reason  for  it  and  was  instantly  plunged  into  a 
slough  of  terror  and  despair.  She  retained  sufficient 
wit,  however,  to  draw  her  husband  away,  thus  pre 
venting  him  from  walking  with  Donald. 

"I  want  to  tell  him  about  Dirty  Dan,"  Daney  pro 
tested,  in  a  low  voice.  "As  the  boss,  he  ought  to  be 
told  promptly  of  any  injury  to  an  employe." 

"Never  mind  Dirty  Dan,"  she  retorted.  "He'll  hear 
of  it  soon  enough.  Let  us  congratulate  Mr.  Tingley 
on  his  sermon." 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  135 

Donald,  having  turned  his  back  on  them  almost 
rudely,  strode  down  the  street  to  his  car  and  motored 
back  to  The  Dreamerie.  He  spent  the  remainder  of 
the  morning  force-breaking  a  setter  puppy  to  retrieve ; 
at  one  o'clock,  he  ate  a  cold  luncheon,  and  immediately 
thereafter  drove  down  to  Port  Agnew  and  brazenly 
parked  his  car  in  front  of  Caleb  Brent's  gate. 

He  entered  without  the  formality  of  knocking,  and 
Nan  met  him  in  the  tiny  entrance-hall. 

"I  couldn't  wait  until  dinner-time,"  he  explained. 
"Nobody  home  at  The  Dreamerie — "  He  took  her 
face  in  his  calloused  hands,  drew  her  to  him.  "You're 
sweet  in  that  calico  gown,"  he  informed  her,  waiving 
a  preliminary  word  of  greeting.  "I  love  you,"  he 
added  softly,  and  kissed  her.  She  clung  to  him. 

"You  should  not  have  come  here  in  broad  daylight," 
she  protested.  "Oh,  you  big,  foolish,  impulsive  dear! 
Don't  you  realize  I  want  to  protect  you  from  the 
tongue  of  scandal?  If  you  persist  in  forgetting  who 
you  are,  does  it  follow  that  I  should  pursue  a  similar 
course?" 

He  ignored  her  argument. 

"I'll  help  you  get  dinner,  old  blue-eyes,"  he  sug 
gested.  "Let  me  shuck  some  corn  or  shell  some  peas 
or  string  some  beans — any  job  where  I  can  sit  and 
look  at  you  and  talk  to  you." 

"It  will  please  me  if  you'll  visit  a  little  while  with 
father  Caleb,"  she  suggested.  "He's  out  on  the  sun- 
porch.  He's  far  from  well  this  morning.  Do  cheer 
him  up,  Donald  dear." 

Old  Caleb  hailed  him  with  a  pleasure  that  was  almost 
childish.  During  the  two  weeks  that  had  elapsed 
since  Donald  had  seen  him  last,  he  had  failed  markedly. 


136  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

"Well,  how  does  the  old  sailor  feel  this  morning?" 
Donald  queried  casually,  seating  himself  opposite  the 
old  man. 

"Poorly,  Mr.  Donald;  poorly."  He  turned,  satis 
fied  himself  that  Nan  was  busy  in  the  kitchen,  and 
then  leaned  toward  his  visitor.  "I've  got  my  sailing- 
orders,"  he  whispered  confidentially.  The  man  who  had 
won  a  Congressional  medal  of  honor,  without  clearly 
knowing  why  or  how,  had  not  changed  with  the  years. 
He  advanced  this  statement  as  a  simple  exposition 
of  fact. 

"Think  so,  Caleb?"  Donald  answered  soberly. 

"I  know  it." 

"If  you  have  no  desire  to  live,  Caleb,  of  course  na 
ture  will  yield  to  your  desires.  Remember  that  and 
buck  up.  You  may  have  your  sailing-orders,  but  you 
can  keep  the  bar  breaking  indefinitely  to  prevent  you 
from  crossing  out." 

"I've  done  that  for  a  year  past.  I  do  not-  wish  to 
die  and  leave  her,  for  my  three-quarter  pay  stops  then. 
But  I  suffer  from  angina  pectoris.  It's  the  worry, 
Mr.  Donald,"  he  added. 

"Worry  as  to  the  future  of  Nan  and  the  child?" 

"Aye,  lad." 

"Well,  Caleb,  your  worries  are  unnecessary.  I  feel 
it  my  duty  to  tell  you  that  I  love  Nan ;  she  loves  me, 
and  we  have  told  each  other  so.  She  shall  not  suffer 
when  you  are  gone.  She  has  indicated  to  me  that,  some 
day,  this — this  mess  may  be  cleared  up;  and  when 
that  happens,  I  shall  marry  Nan." 

"So  Nan  told  me  this  morning.  I  was  wondering 
if  you'd  speak  to  me  about  it,  and  I'm  glad  you  have 
done  so — promptly.  You — you — honor  us,  Mr.  Don- 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  137 

aid;  you  do,  indeed.  You're  the  one  man  in  the  world 
I  can  trust  her  with,  whether  as  good  friend  or  hus 
band — only,  her  husband  you'll  never  be." 

"I  see  breakers  ahead,"  Donald  admitted.  He  had 
no  desire  to  dissemble  with  this  straightforward  old 
father. 

"We're  poor  folk  and  plain,  but — please  God! — 
we're  decent  and  we  know  our  place,  Mr.  Donald.  If 
your  big  heart  tells  you  to  dishonor  yourself  in  the 
eyes  of  your  world  and  your  people — mark  you,  lad, 
I  do  not  admit  that  an  alliance  with  my  girl  could  ever 
dishonor  you  in  your  own  eyes — Nan  will  not  be  weak 
enough  to  permit  it." 

"I  have  argued  all  that  out  with  myself,"  Donald 
confessed  miserably,  "without  having  arrived  at  a  con 
clusion.  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  wait  patiently 
and  see  what  the  future  may  bring  forth." 

"It  may  be  a  long  wait." 

"It  will  be  worth  while.  And  when  you  have  sailed, 
I'll  finance  her  to  leave  Port  Agnew  and  develop  her 
glorious  yoice." 

"You  haven't  the  right,  Mr.  Donald.  My  girl  has 
some  pride." 

"I'll  gamble  a  sizable  sum  on  her  artistic  future. 
The  matter  will  be  arranged  on  a  business  basis.  I 
shall  lend  her  the  money,  and  she  shall  pay  me  back 
with  interest." 

"Nan  has  a  woman's  pride.  The  obligation  would 
remain  always,  even  though  the  money  should  be  re 
paid." 

"I  think  we'll  manage  to  adjust  that,"  Donald  coun 
tered  confidently. 


138  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

"Ah,  well,"  the  old  fellow  answered;  "we've  always 
been  your  debtors.  And  it's  a  debt  that  grows." 

He  loaded  his  pipe  and  was  silent,  for,  after  the 
fashion  of  the  aged,  he  dared  assume  that  his  youth 
ful  auditor  would  understand  just  how  the  Brents 
regarded  him. 

"Well,  my  heart's  lighter  for  our  talk,  lad,"  he  de 
clared  presently.  "If  you  don't  mind,  I'll  have  a  little 
nap." 

Donald,  grateful  for  the  dismissal,  returned  to  the 
kitchen,  where  Nan  was  preparing  the  vegetables. 
Her  child  at  once  clamored  for  recognition,  and,  almost 
before  he  knew  it,  Donald  had  the  tyke  in  his  lap  and 
was  saying, 

"Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  king  and  he  had 
three  sons — : — " 

"He  isn't  interested  in  kings  and  princes,  dear," 
Nan  interrupted.  "Tell  him  the  story  of  the  bad  little 
rabbit." 

"But  I  don't  know  it,  Nan." 

"Then  you'll  fail  as  a  daddy  to  my  boy.  I'm  sur 
prised.  If  Don  were  your  own  flesh  and  blood,  you 
would  know  intuitively  that  there  is  always  a  bad  little 
rabbit  and  a  good  little  rabbit.  They  dwell  in  a  hollow 
tree  with  mother  Rabbit  and  father  Rabbit." 

"Thanks  for  the  hint.  I  shall  not  fail  in  this  job 
of  dadding.  Well  then,  bub,  once  upon  a  time  there 
was  a  certain  Mr.  Johnny  Rabbit  who  married  a  very 
beautiful  lady  rabbit  whose  name  was  Miss  Molly  Cot 
tontail.  After  they  were  married  and  had  gone  to 
keep  house  under  a  lumber-pile,  Mr.  Hezekiah  Coon 
came  along  and  offered  to  rent  them  some  beautifully 
furnished  apartments  in  the  burned-out  stump  of  a 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  139 

hemlock  tree.  The  rent  was  to  be  one  nice  ear  of 
sweet  corn  every  month " 

The  tale  continued,  with  eager  queries  from  the  in 
terested  listener — queries  which  merely  stimulated  the 
young  laird  of  Tyee  to  wilder  and  more  whimsical 
flights  of  fancy,  to  the  unfolding  of  adventures  more 
and  more  thrilling  and  unbelievable  until,  at  last,  the 
recital  began  to  take  on  the  character  of  an  Arabian 
Nights'  tale  that  threatened  to  involve  the  entire  ani 
mal  kingdom,  and  only  ceased  when,  with  a  wealth  of 
mournful  detail,  Donald  described  the  tragic  death  and 
funeral  of  the  gallant  young  Johnny  Rabbit,  his 
fatherless  audience  suddenly  burst  into  tears  and 
howled  lugubriously;  whereupon  Donald  was  hard  put 
to  it  to  bring  Johnny  Rabbit  back  to  life  mysteriously 
but  satisfactorily,  and  send  him  scampering  home  to 
the  hollow  hemlock  tree,  there  to  dwell  happily  ever 
after. 

His  tale  completed,  Donald  happened  to  glance 
toward  Nan.  She  was  regarding  him  with  shining 
eyes. 

"Donald,"  she  declared,  "it's  a  tremendous  pity  you 
haven't  a  boy  of  your  own.  You're  just  naturally 
intended  for  fatherhood." 

He  grinned. 

"My  father  has  been  hinting  rather  broadly  that 
a  grandson  would  be  the  very  last  thing  on  earth  to 
make  him  angry.  He  desires  to  see  the  name  and  the 
breed  and  the  business  in  a  fair  way  of  perpetuation 
before  he  passes  on." 

"That  is  the  way  of  all  flesh,  Donald." 

"I  wish  it  were  not  his  way.     My  inability  to  com- 


140  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

ply  with  his  desires  isn't  going  to  render  dad  or  me 
any  happier." 

"Dear  old  boy,  what  a  frightful  predicament  you're 
in!"  she  murmured  sympathetically.  "I  wish  I  could 
be  quite  certain  you  aren't  really  in  love  with  me, 
Donald." 

"Life  would  be  far  rosier  for  all  concerned  if  I  were 
quite  certain  I  was  mistaking  an  old  and  exalted 
friendship  for  true  love.  But  I'm  not.  You're  the 
one  woman  in  the  world  for  me,  and  if  I  cannot  have 
you,  I'll  have  none  other —  Hello !  Weeping  has 
made  this  young  fellow  heavy-lidded,  or  else  my  fiction 
has  bored  him,  for  he's  nodding." 

"It's  time  for  his  afternoon  nap,  Donald."  She 
removed  the  sleepy  tot  from  his  arms  and  carried 
him  away  to  his  crib.  When  she  returned,  she  resumed 
her  task  of  preparing  dinner. 

"Nan,"  Donald  queried  suddenly,  "have  I  the  right 
to  ask  you  the  name  of  the  man  who  fathered  that 
child?" 

"Yes,"  she^answered  soberly;  "you  have.  I  wish, 
however,  that  you  would  not  ask  me.  I  should  have 
to  decline  to  answer  you." 

"Well,  then,  I'll  not  ask.  Nevertheless,  it  would  in 
terest  me  mightily  to  know  why  you  protect  him." 

"I  am  not  at  all  desirous  of  protecting  him,  Donald. 
I  am  merely  striving  to  protect  his  legal  wife.  His 
marriage  to  me  was  bigamous ;  he  undertook  the  task 
of  leading  a  dual  married  life,  and,  when  I  discovered 
it,  I  left  him." 

"But  are  you  certain  he  married  you?" 

"We  went  througli  a  marriage  ceremony  which,  at 
the  time,  I  regarded  as  quite  genuine.  Of  course,  since 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  141 

it  wasn't  legal,  it  leaves  me  in  the  status  of  an  un 
married  woman." 

"So  I  understood  from  your  father.  Where  did 
this  ceremony  take  place?" 

"In  San  Francisco."  She  came  over,  sat  down  be 
side  him,  and  took  one  of  his  hard,  big  hands  in  both 
of  hers.  "I'm  going  to  tell  you  as  much  as  I  dare," 
she  informed  him  soberly.  "You  have  a  right  to  know, 
and  you're  too  nice  to  ask  questions.  So  I'll  not  leave 
you  to  the  agonies  of  doubt  and  curiosity.  You  see, 
honey  dear,  father  Brent  wanted  me  to  have  vocal  and 
piano  lessons,  and  to  do  that  I  had  to  go  to  Seattle 
once  a  week,  and  the  railroad-fare,  in  addition  to  the 
cost  of  the  lessons,  was  prohibitive  until  your  father 
was  good  enough  to  secure  me  a  position  in  the  rail 
road-agent's  office  in  Port  Agnew.  Of  course,  after 
I  became  an  employe  of  the  railroad  company,  I  could 
travel  on  a  pass,  so  I  used  to  go  up  to  Seattle  every 
Saturday,  leaving  here  on  the  morning  train.  Your 
father  arranged  matters  in  some  way  so  that  I  worked 
but  five  days  a  week." 

"Naturally.  Dad's  a  pretty  heavy  shipper  orer  the 
line." 

"I  would  receive  my  lessons  late  Saturday  after 
noons,  stay  overnight  with  a  friend  of  mine,  and  re 
turn  to  Port  Agnew  on  Sunday.  He  used  to  board 
the  train  at — well,  the  name  of  the  station  doesn't 
matter — every  Saturday,  and  one  day  we  got  ac 
quainted,  quite  by  accident  as  it  were.  Our  train  ran 
through  an  open  switch  and  collided  with  the  rear  end 
of  a  freight ;  there  was  considerable  excitement,  and 
everybody  spoke  to  everybody  else,  and  after  that  it 
didn't  appear  that  we  were  strangers.  The  next  Satur- 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

day,  when  he  boarded  the  train,  he  sat  down  in  the 
same  seat  with  me  and  asked  permission  to  introduce 
himself.  He  was  very  nice,  and  his  manners  were  beau 
tiful  ;  he  didn't  act  in  the  least  like  a  man  who  desired 
to  'make  a  mash.'  Finally,  one  day,  he  asked  me  to 
have  dinner  with  him  in  Seattle,  and  I  accepted.  I 
think  that  was  because  I'd  never  been  in  a  fashion 
able  restaurant  in  all  my  life.  After  dinner,  he  escorted 
me  to  the  studio,  and  on  Sunday  morning  we  took  the 
same  train  home  again.  He  was  such  good  company 
and  such  a  jolly,  worldly  fellow — so  thoughtful  and 
deferential!  Can't  you  realize,  Donald,  how  he  must 
have  appealed  to  a  little  country  goose  like  me? 

"Well,  finally,  daddy  Brent  learned  that  Signer 
Moretti,  a  tenor  who  had  retired  from  grand  opera, 
had  opened  a  studio  in  San  Francisco.  We  both 
wanted  Moretti  to  pass  on  my  voice,  but  we  couldn't 
afford  the  expense  of  a  journey  to  San  Francisco  for 
two,  so  daddy  sent  me  alone.  I  wrote — that  man  about 
our  plans,  and  told  him  the  name  of  the  steamer  I 
was  sailing  on.  Your  father  gave  me  a  passage  on 
one  of  his  steam-schooners,  and  when  we  got  to  the 
dock  in  San  Francisco 

"He  was  there,  eh?  Came  down  by  train  and  beat 
the  steamer  in."  Donald  nodded  his  comprehension. 
"What  did  Moretti  say  about  your  voice?" 

"The  usual  thing.  My  Seattle  teacher  had  almost 
ruined  my  voice,  he  declared,  but,  for  all  that,  he  was 
very  enthusiastic  and  promised  me  a  career  within 
five  years  if  I  would  place  myself  unreservedly  in  his 
hands.  Of  course,  we  couldn't  afford  such  an  expensive 
career,  and  the  realization  that  I  had  to  forego  even 
the  special  inducements  Sign  or  Moretti  was  generous 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

enough  to  make  me  quite  broke  my  heart.  When  I  told 
him  about  it — we  were  engaged  by  that  time — hq  sug 
gested  that  we  get  married  immediately,  in  order  that 
I  might  reside  with  him  in  San  Francisco  and  study 
under  Moretti.  So  we  motored  out  into  the  country 
one  day  and  were  married  at  San  Jose.  He  asked 
me  to  keep  our  marriage  secret  on  account  of  some 
clause  in  his  father's  will,  but  I  insisted  upon  my  right 
to  tell  daddy  Brent.  Poor  old  dear!  My  marriage 
was  such  a  shock  to  him;  but  he  agreed  with  me  that 
it  was  all  for  the  best " 

"Well,  I  was  quite  happy  for  three  months.  My 
husband's  business  interests  necessitated  very  frequent 
trips  North " 

"What  business  was  he  in,  Nan?" 

"That  is  immaterial,"  she  evaded  him.  "Presently, 
Signor  Moretti  contracted  a  severe  cold  and  closed 
his  studio  for  a  month.  My  husband — I  suppose  I 
must  call  him  that  to  identify  him  when  I  refer  to  him 
— had  just  gone  North  on  one  of  his  frequent  trips, 
and  since  he  always  kept  me  generously  supplied  with 
money,  I  decided  suddenly  to  take  advantage  of 
Moretti's  absence  to  run  up  to  Port  Agnew  and  visit 
my  father. 

"In  Seattle,  as  I  alighted  from  the  train,  I  saw  my 
husband  in  the  station  with  another  woman.  I  recog 
nized  her.  She  was  a  friend  of  mine — a  very  dear, 
kind,  thoughtful  friend  of  several  years'  standing — 
the  only  woman  friend  I  had  in  the  world.  I  loved 
her  dearly;  you  will  understand  when  I  tell  you  that 
she  had  frequently  gone  out  of  her  way  to  be  kind 
to  me.  It  struck  me  as  strange  that  he  had  never  ad 
mitted  knowing  her,  although  frequently  he  had  heard 


144  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

me  speak  of  her.  While  I  stood  pondering  the  situa 
tion,  he  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  good-by 
and  boarded  the  train  without  seeing  me.  I  slipped 
out  of  the  station  without  having  been  seen  by  either 
of  them ;  but  while  I  was  waiting  for  a  taxicab,  my 
friend  came  out  of  the  station,  saw  me,  and  rushed 
up  to  greet  me.  It  developed,  in  the  course  of  our 
conversation  following  the  usual  commonplaces  of 
greeting,  that  she  had  been  down  to  the  station  to 
see  her  husband  off  on  the  train  for  San  Francisco." 

Donald  whistled  softly. 

"How  did  you  manage  to  get  away  with  it,  Nan?" 
he  demanded  incredulously. 

"All  my  life  I  have  been  used  to  doing  without 
things,"  she  replied  simply.  "I  suppose  that  helped  a 
little.  The  shock  was  not  so  abrupt  that  I  lost  my 
presence  of  mind ;  you  see,  I  had  had  a  few  minutes 
to  adjust  myself  after  seeing  him  kiss  her  in  the  sta 
tion — and  just  then  the  taxicab  came  up  and  I 
escaped.  Then  I  came  home  to  the  Sawdust  Pile.  I 
wrote  him,  of  course,  and  sent  the  letter  by  registered 
mail,  in  order  to  make  certain  he  would  receive  it. 
He  did,  but  he  did  not  answer.  There  was  no  reason 
why  he  should,  for  he  was  quite  safe.  I  had  assured 
him  there  was  no  necessity  for  worry  on  my  account." 

"Of  all  the  crazy,  fool  things  for  you  to  do !"  Don 
ald  cried  sharply.  "Why  under  the  canopy  did  you 
deem  it  necessary  to  sacrifice  yourself  for  him?  Surely 
you  did  not  love  him — 

"I'm  afraid  I  never  loved  him,"  she  interrupted. 
"I — I  thought  I  did,  although,  if  he  hadn't  been  away 
so  frequently  after  our  marriage,  I  would  have  learned 
to  love  him  dearly,  I  think." 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  115 

"Just  human  nature,"  Donald  suggested.  "Some 
thing  akin  to  what  trapshooters  and  golfers  call  a 
mental  hazard." 

"Of  course  he  married  me  under  an  assumed  name, 
Donald," 

"Did  you  ever  see  a  marriage  certificate?" 

"Oh,  yes;  I  had  to  sign  it  in  the  presence  of  the 
minister." 

Donald  was  relieved. 

"Then,  you  great  goose  of  a  girl,  you  can  clear 
your  record  any  time  you  desire.  The  minister  for 
warded  the  marriage  certificate  to  the  state  capi 
tal,  and  it  is  registered  there  with  the  State  Board 
of  Health.  After  registration,  it  was  returned  to  the 
minister  whose  signature  appeared  on  the  certificate 
as  the  officiating  clergyman.  The  minister  undoubt 
edly  returned  the  certificate  to  your  husband." 

"I  never  saw  it  again." 

"What  if  you  did  not?  You  can  procure  a  certified 
copy  from  the  record  in  the  county-clerk's  office  or 
from  the  records  of  the  State  Board  of  Health.  Mar 
riage  records,  old  dear,  are  fairly  well  protected  in 
our  day  and  generation." 

"I  wrote  to  the  State  Board  of  Health  at  Sacra 
mento.  There  is  no  record  of  my  marriage  there." 

"That's  strange.  Why  didn't  you  write  the  county 
clerk  of  the  county  in  which  the  license  was  issued?" 

She  smiled  at  him. 

"I  did.  I  had  to,  you  know.  My  honor  was  at  stake. 
The  license  was  issued  in  Santa  Clara  County."  . 

"Well,  it  will  be  a  simple  matter  to  comb  the  list 
of  ministers  until  we  find  the  one  that  tied  the  knot. 


M6  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

A  certified  copy  of  the  marriage  license,  with  a  sworn 
affidavit  by  the  officiating  clergyman 

"The  officiating  clergyman  is  dead.  A  private  de 
tective  agency  in  San  Francisco  discovered  that  for 
us." 

"But  couldn't  you  cover  your  tracks,  Nan?  Under 
the  circumstances,  a  lie — any  kind  of  deceit  to  save 
your  good  name — would  have  been  pardonable." 

"I  couldn't  help  being  smirched.  Remember,  my 
father  was  the  only  person  in  Port  Agnew  who  knew 
I  had  been  married;  he  heeded  my  request  and  kept 
the  secret.  Suddenly  I  returned  home  with  a  tale  of 
marriage  in  anticipation  of  my  ability  to  prove  it. 
In  that  I  failed.  Presently  my  baby  was  bom.  Peo 
ple  wondered  who  my  husband  was,  and  where  he  kept 
himself;  some  of  the  extremely  curious  had  the  hardi 
hood  to  come  here  and  question  me.  Was  my  hus 
band  dead?  Of  course  not.  Had  I  fibbed  and  told 
them  he  was,  they  would  have  asked  when  and  where 
and  the  nature  of  the  disease  that  carried  him  off. 
Was  I  divorced?  Again  I  was  confronted  with  the  ne 
cessity  for  telling  the  truth,  because  a  lie  could  be 
proved.  Then  the  minister,  to  quiet  certain  rumors 
that  had  reached  him — he  wanted  me  to  sing  in  the 
choir  again,  and  there  was  an  uproar  when  he  sug 
gested  it — wrote  to  the  California  State  Board  of 
Plealth.  When  he  received  a  reply  to  his  letter,  he 
visited  me  to  talk  it  over,  but  I  wasn't  confiding  in 
Mr.  Tingley  that  day.  He  said  I  might  hope  for  salva 
tion  if  I  confessed  my  wickedness  and  besought  for 
giveness  from  God.  He  offered  to  pray  for  me  and 
with  me.  He  meant  well — poor,  silly  dear! — but  he 
was  so  terribly  incredulous  that  presently  I  told  him 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  147 

I  didn't  blame  him  a  bit  and  suggested  that  I  be 
permitted  to  paddle  my  own  canoe,  as  it  were. 
Thanked  him  for  calling,  but  told  him  he  needn't  call 
again.  He  departed  in  great  distress." 

"I  hold  no  brief  for  the  Reverend  Tingle y,  Nan; 
but  I'll  be  shot  if  your  story  will  hold  water  in  a  world 
that's  fairly  well  acquainted  with  the  frailty  of  human 
kind.  Of  course  I  believe  you — and,  for  some  fool 
reason,  I'm  not  ashamed  of  my  own  intelligence  in  so 
believing.  I  have  accepted  you  on  faith.  What  sets 
my  reason  tottering  on  its  throne  is  the  fact  that  you 
insist  upon  protecting  this  scoundrel." 

"I  insist  upon  protecting  his  wife.  I  love  her.  She 
has  been  kind  to  me.  She's  the  only  friend  of  my  own 
sex  that  I  have  ever  known.  She's  tubercular,  and  will 
not  live  many  years.  She  has  two  children — and  she 
adores  her  scamp  of  a  husband.  If  I  cannot  convict 
that  man  of  bigamy,  would  it  not  be  foolish  of  me  to 
try?  And  why  should  I  inflict  upon  her,  who  has 
shown  me  kindness  and  love,  a  brimming  measure  of 
humiliation  and  sorrow  and  disgrace?  I  can  bear  my 
burden  a  year  or  two  longer,  I  think;  then,  when  she 
is  gone,  I  can  consider  my  vindication."  She  patted 
his  hand  to  emphasize  her  unity  of  purpose.  "That's 
the  way  I've  figured  it  all  out — the  whole,  crazy-quilt 
pattern,  and  if  you  have  a  better  scheme,  and  one 
that  isn't  founded  on  human  selfishness,  I'm  here  to 
listen  to  it." 

A  long  silence  fell  between  them. 

"Well,  dear  heart?"  she  demanded  finally. 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  that/9  he  replied  slowly.  "I 
was  just  trying  to  estimate  how  much  more  I  love 
you  this  minute  than  I  did  five  minutes  ago." 


118  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

He  drew  her  golden  head  down  on  his  shoulder  and 
held  her  to  him  a  long  time  without  speaking.  It  was 
Nan  who  broke  the  spell  by  saying: 

"When  the  time  comes  for  my  vindication,  I  shall 
ask  you  to  attend  to  it  for  me,  dear.  You're  my 
man — and  I  think  it's  a  man's  task.'* 

His  great  fingers  opened  and  closed  in  a  clutching 
movement.  He  nodded. 


XVII 

WHEN  Donald  returned  to  The  Dreamerie  about 
eleven  o'clock,  he  was  agreeably  surprised  to* 
find  his  father  in  the  living-room. 

"Hello,  dad!"  he  greeted  The  Laird  cheerfully. 
"Glad  to  see  you.  When  did  you  get  back?" 

"Came  down  on  the  morning  train,  Donald." 

They  were  shaking  hands  now.  The  Laird  mo 
tioned  him  to  a  chair,  and  asked  abruptly. 

"Where  have  you  been  all  day,  son?" 

"Well,  I  represented  the  clan  at  church  this  morn 
ing,  and,  after  luncheon  here,  I  went  down  to  visit  the 
Brents  at  the  Sawdust  Pile.  Stayed  for  dinner.  Old 
Caleb's  in  rather  bad  shape  mentally  and  physically, 
and  I  tried  to  cheer  him  up.  Nan  sang  for  me — 
quite  like  old  times." 

"I  saw  Nan  Brent  on  the  beach  the  other  day. 
Quite  a  remarkable  young  woman.  Attractive,  I  should 
say,"  the  old  man  answered  craftily. 

"It's  a  pity,  dad.  She's  every  inch  a  woman.  Hard 
on  a  girl  with  brains  and  character  to  find  herself 
in  such  a  sorry  tangle." 

The  Laird's  heavy  heart  was  somewhat  lightened 
by  the  frankness  and  lack  of  suspicion  with  which  his 
son  had  met  his  blunt  query  as  to  where  he  had  been 
spending  his  time.  For  the  space  of  a  minute,  he  ap 
peared  to  be  devoting  his  thoughts  to  a  consideration 
of  Donald's  last  remark ;  presently  he  sighed,  faced 
his  son,  and  took  the  plunge. 

149 


150  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

"Have  you  heard  anything  about  a  fight  down  near 
the  Sawdust  Pile  last  night,  my  son?"  he  demanded. 

His  son's  eyes  opened  with  interest  and  astonish 
ment. 

"No ;  I  did  not,  dad.  And  I  was  there  until  nearly 
ten  o'clock." 

"Yes;  I  was  aware  of  that,  and  of  your  visit  there 
to-day  and  this  evening.  Thank  God,  you're  frank 
with  me !  That  yellow  scoundrel  and  two  Greeks  fol 
lowed  you  there  to  do  for  you.  After  you  roughed 
the  Greek  at  the  railroad  station,  it  occurred  to  me 
that  you  had  an  enemy  and  might  hold  him  cheaply; 
so,  just  before  I  boarded  the  train,  I  telephoned  Daney 
to  tell  Dirty  Dan  to  shadow  you  and  guard  you.  So 
well  did  he  follow  orders  that  he  lies  in  the  company 
hospital  now  at  the  point  of  death.  As  near  as  I  can 
make  out  the  affair,  Dirty  Dan  inculcated  in  those 
bushwhackers  the  idea  that  he  was  the  man  they  were 
after ;  he  went  to  meet  them  and  took  the  fight  off  your 
hands." 

"Good  old  Dirty  Dan !  I'll  wager  a  stiff  sum  he  did 
a  thorough  job."  The  young  laird  of  Tyee  rose  and 
ruffled  his  father's  gray  head  affectionately.  "Thought 
ful,  canny  old  fox!"  he  continued.  "I  swear  I'm  all 
puffed  up  with  conceit  when  I  consider  the  kind  of 
father  I  selected  for  myself." 

"Those  scoundrels  would  have  killed  you,"  old  Hec 
tor  reminded  him,  with  just  a  trace  of  emotion  in 
his  voice.  "And  if  they'd  done  that,  sonny,  your  old 
father'd  never  held  up  his  head  again!  There  are  two 
things  I  could  not  stand  up  under — your  death  and" 
— he  sighed,  as  if  what  he  was  about  to  say  hurt  him 
cruelly — "the  wrong  kind  of  a  daughter-in-law." 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  151 

"We  will  not  fence  with  each  other,"  his  son  an 
swered  soberly.  "There  has  never  been  a  lack  of  confi 
dence  between  us,  and  I  shall  not  withhold  anything 
from  you.  You  are  referring  to  Nan,  are  you  not?" 

"I  am,  my  son." 

"Well?"   * 

"I  am  not  a  cat,  and  it  hurts  me  to  be  an  old  dog, 
but — I  saw  Nan  Brent  recently,  and  we  had  a  bit  of 
talk  together.  She's  a  bonny  lass,  Donald,  and  I'rn 
thinking  'twould  be  better  for  your  peace  of  mind — 
and  the  peace  of  mind  of  all  of  us — if  you  saw  less 
of  her." 

"You  think,  then,  father,  that  I'm  playing  with 
fire." 

"You're  sitting  on  an  open  barrel  of  gunpowder  with 
a  lighted  torch  in  your  hand." 

Donald  returned  to  his  chair  and  faced  his  father. 

"Let  us  suppose,"  he  suggested,  "that  the  present 
unhappy  situation  in  which  Nan  finds  herself  did  not 
exist.  Would  you  still  prefer  that  I  limit  my  visits 
to,  say,  Christmas  and  Easter?" 

The  Laird  scratched  the  back  of  his  head  in  per 
plexity. 

"I'm  inclined  to  think  I  wouldn't,"  he  replied.  "I'd 
consider  your  best  interests  always.  If  you  married 
a  fine  girl  from  Chicago  or  New  York,  she  might  not 
be  content  to  dwell  with  you  in  Port  Agnew." 

"Then  Nan's  poverty — the  lowliness  of  her  social 
position,  even  in  Port  Agnew,  would  not  constitute  a 
serious  bar?" 

"I  was  as  poor  as  Job's  turkey  once  myself — and 
your  mother's  people  were  poorer.  But  we  came  of 
good  blood." 


152  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

"Well,  Nan's  mother  was  a  gentlewoman ;  her  grand 
father  was  an  admiral;  her  great-grandfather  a  com 
modore,  her  great-great-granduncle  a  Revolutionary 
colonel,  and  her  grandmother  an  F.  F.  V.  Old 
Caleb's  ancestors  always  followed  the  sea.  His  father 
and  his  grandfather  were  sturdy  old  Yankee  ship 
masters.  He  holds  the  Congressional  medal  of  honor 
for  conspicuous  gallantry  in  action  over  and  above  the 
call  of  duty.  The  Brent  blood  may  not  be  good  enough 
for  some,  but  it's  a  kind  that's  good  enough  for  me !" 

"All  that  is  quite  beside  the  question,  Donald.  The 
fact  remains  that  Nan  Brent  loves  you." 

"May  I  inquire  on  what  grounds  you  base  that  state 
ment,  dad?" 

"On  Saturday  night,  when  you  held  her  in  your  arms 
at  parting,  she  kissed  you."  Donald  was  startled,  and 
his  features  gave  indubitable  indication  of  the  fact. 
His  father's  cool  gray  eyes  were  bent  upon  him  kindly 
but  unflinchingly.  "Of  course,"  he  continued,  in  even 
tones,  "you  would  not  have  accepted  that  caress  were 
you  not  head  over  heels  in  love  with  the  girl.  You 
are  not  low  enough  to  seek  her  favor  for  another 
reason." 

"Yes ;  I  love  her,"  Donald  maintained  manfully.  "I 
have  loved  her  for  years — since  I  was  a  boy  of  sixteen 
— only,  I  didn't  realize  it  until  my  return  to  Port  Ag- 
new.  I  can't  very  well  help  loving  Nan,  can  I,  dad?" 

To  his  amazement,  his  father  smiled  at  him  sym 
pathetically. 

"No ;  I  do  not  see  how  you  could  very  well  help  your 
self,  son,"  he  replied.  "She's  an  extraordinary  young 
woman.  After  my  brief  and  accidental  interview  with 
her  recently,  I  made  up  my  mind  that  there  would  be 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  155 

something  radically  wrong  with  you  if  you  didn't  fall 
in  love  with  her." 

His  son  grinned  back  at  him. 

"Proceed,  old  lumberjack!"  he  begged.  "Your  can 
dor  is  soothing  to  my  bruised  spirit." 

"No ;  you  cannot  help  loving  her,  I  suppose.  Since 
you  admit  being  in  love  with  her,  the  fact  admits  of  no 
argument.  It  has  happened,  and  I  do  not  condemn 
you  for  it.  Both  of  you  have  merely  demonstrated 
in  the  natural,  human  way  that  you  are  natural  hu 
man  beings.  And  I'm  grateful  to  Nan  for  loving  you. 
1  think  I  should  have  resented  her  not  doing  so,  for 
it  would  demonstrate  her  total  lack  of  taste  and  ap 
preciation  of  my  son.  She  informed  me,  in  so  many 
words,  that  she  wouldn't  marry  you." 

"Nan  has  the  capacity,  somewhat  rare  in  a  woman, 
of  keeping  her  own  counsel.  That  is  news  to  me,  dad. 
However,  if  you  had  waited  about  two  minutes,  I 
would  have  informed  you  that  I  do  not  intend  to  marry 
Nan — "  He  paused  for  an  infinitesimal  space  and 
added,  "yet." 

The  Laird  elevated  his  eyebrows. 

"'Yet?'"  he  repeated. 

Donald  flushed  a  little  as  he  reiterated  his  statement 
with  an  emphatic  nod. 

"Why  that  reservation,  my  son?" 

"Because,  some  day,  Nan  may  be  in  position  to 
prove  herself  that  which  I  know  her  to  be — a  virtu 
ous  woman — and  when  that  time  comes,  I'll  marry  her 
in  spite  of  hell  and  high  water." 

Old  Hector  sighed.  He  was  quite  familiar  with  the 
fact  that,  while  the  records  of  the  county  clerk  of 
Santa  Clara  County,  California,  indicated  that  a  mar- 


154  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

riage  license  had  been  issued  on  a  certain  date  to  a 
certain  man  and  one  Nan  Brent,  of  Port  Agnew,  Wash 
ington,  there  was  no  official  record  of  a  marriage  be 
tween  the  two.  The  Reverend  Mr.  Tingley's  wife  had 
sorrowfully  imparted  that  information  to  Mrs.  Mc- 
Kaye,  who  had,  in  turn,  informed  old  Hector,  who 
had  received  the  news  with  casual  interest,  little  dream 
ing  that  he  would  ever  have  cause  to  remember  it  in 
later  years.  And  The  Laird  was  an  old  man,  worldly- 
wise  and  of  mature  judgment.  His  soul  wore  the  scars 
of  human  perfidy,  and,  because  he  could  understand 
the  weakness  of  the  flesh,  he  had  little  confidence  in  its 
strength.  Consequently,  he  dismissed  now,  with  a  wave 
of  his  hand,  consideration  of  the  possibility  that  Nan 
Brent  would  ever  make  a  fitting  mate  for  his  son. 

"It's  nice  of  you  to  believe  that,  Donald.  I  would 
not  destroy  your  faith  in  human  nature,  for  human 
nature  will  destroy  your  faith  in  time,  as  it  has  de 
stroyed  mine.  I'm  afraid  I'm  a  sort  of  doubting 
Thomas.  I  must  see  in  order  to  believe ;  I  must  thrust 
my  finger  into  the  wound.  I  wonder  if  you  realize 
that,  even  if  this  poor  girl  should,  at  some  future 
time,  be  enabled  to  demonstrate  her  innocence  of  illicit 
love,  she  has  been  hopelessly  smeared  and  will  never, 
never,  be  quite  able  to  clean  herself." 

"It  matters  not  if  7  know  she's  a  good  woman.  That 
is  all  sufficient.  To  hell  with  what  the  world  thinks ! 
I'm  going  to  take  my  happiness  where  I  find  it." 

"It  may  be  a  long  wait,  my  son." 

"I  will  be  patient,  sir." 

"And,  in  the  meantime,  I  shall  be  a  doddering  old 
man,  without  a  grandson  to  sweeten  the  afternoon  of 
my  life,  without  a  hope  for  seeing  perpetuated  all  those 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  155 

things  that  I  have  considered  worth  while  because  I 
created  them.  Ah,  Donald,  lad,  I'm  afraid  you're  go 
ing  to  be  cruel  to  your  old  father!" 

"I  have  suffered  with  the  thought  that  I  might  ap 
pear  to  be,  dad.  I  have  considered  every  phase  of 
the  situation;  I  was  certain  of  the  attitude  you  would 
take,  and  I  feel  no  resentment  because  you  have  taken 
it.  Neither  Nan  nor  I  had  contemplated  the  condi 
tion  which  confronts  us.  It  happened — like  that,"  and 
Donald  snapped  his  fingers.  "Now  the  knowledge  of 
what  we  mean  to  each  other  makes  the  obstacles  all 
the  more  heart-breaking.  I  have  tried  to  wish,  for  your 
sake,  that  I  hadn't  spoken — that  I  had  controlled  my 
self,  but,  for  some  unfathomable  reason,  I  cannot  seem 
to  work  up  a  very  healthy  contrition.  And  I  think, 
dad,  this  is  going  to  cause  me  more  suffering  than 
it  will  you." 

A  faint  smile  flitted  across  old  Hector's  stern  face. 
Youth!  Youth!  It  always  thinks  it  knows! 

"This  affair  is  beyond  consideration  by  the  Mc- 
Kayes,  Donald.  It  is  utterly  impossible!  You  must 
cease  calling  on  the  girl." 

"Why,  father?" 

"To  give  you  my  real  reason  would  lead  to  endless 
argument  in  which  you  would  oppose  me  with  more  or 
less  sophistry  that  would  be  difficult  to  combat.  In 
the  end,  we  might  lose  our  tempers.  Let  us  say,  there 
fore,  that  you  must  cease  calling  on  the  lass  because 
I  desire  it." 

"I'll  never  admit  that  I'm  ashamed  of  her,  for  I  am 
not !"  his  son  burst  forth  passionately. 

"But  people  are  watching  you  now — talking  about 
you.  Man,  do  ye  not  ken  you're  your  father's  son?" 


15(5  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

A  faint  note  of  passion  had  crept  into  The  Laird's 
tones;  under  the  stress  of  it,  his  faint  Scotch  brogue 
increased  perceptibly.  He  had  tried  gentle  argument, 
and  he  knew  he  had  failed;  in  his  desperation,  he  de 
cided  to  invoke  his  authority  as  the  head  of  his  clan. 
"I  forbid  you !"  he  cried  firmly,  and  slapped  the  huge 
leather  arm  of  his  chair.  "I  charge  you,  by  the  blood 
that's  in  you,  not  to  bring  disgrace  upon  my  house!" 

A  slight  mistiness  which  Donald,  with  swelling  heart, 
had  noted  in  his  father's  eyes  a  few  moments  before 
was  now  gone.  They  flashed  like  naked  claymores  in 
the  glance  that  Andrew  Daney  once  had  so  aptly  de 
scribed  to  his  wife. 

For  the  space  of  ten  seconds,  father  and  son  looked 
into  each  other's  soul  and  therein  each  read  the  other's 
answer.  There  could  be  no  surrender. 

"You  have  bred  a  man,  sir,  not  a  mollycoddle,"  said 
the  young  laird  quietly.  "I  think  we  understand  each 
other."  He  rose,  drew  the  old  man  out  of  his  chair, 
and  threw  a  great  arm  across  the  latter's  shoulders. 
"Good-night,  sir,"  he  murmured  humbly,  and  squeezed 
the  old  shoulders  a  little. 

The  Laird  bowed  his  head  but  did  not  answer.  He 
dared  not  trust  himself  to  do  so.  Thus  Donald  left 
him,  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  with  bowed 
head  a  trifle  to  one  side,  as  if  old  Hector  listened  for 
advice  from  some  unseen  presence.  The  Laird  of  Tyee 
had  thought  he  had  long  since  plumbed  the  heights  and 
depths  of  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  fatherhood.  The 
tears  came  presently. 

A  streak  of  moonlight  filtered  into  the  room  as  the 
moon  sank  in  the  sea  and  augmented  the  silver  in  a  head 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  157 

that  rested  on  two  clasped  hands,  while  Hector  Mc- 
Kaye,  kneeling  beside  his  chair,  prayed  to  his  stern 
Presbyterian  God  once  more  to  save  his  son  from  the 
folly  of  his  love. 


XVIII 

FT  had  been  Donald  McKaye's  intention  to  go  up  to 
•*•  the  logging-camp  on  the  first  log-train  leaving  for 
the  woods  at  seven  o'clock  on  Monday  morning,  but 
the  news  of  Dirty  Dan's  plight  caused  him  to  change 
his  plans.  Strangely  enough,  his  interview  with  his 
father,  instead  of  causing  him  the  keenest  mental  dis 
tress,  had  been  productive  of  a  peculiar  sense  of  peace. 
The  frank,  sympathetic,  and  temperate  manner  in  which 
the  old  laird  had  discussed  his  affair  had  conduced  to 
produce  this  feeling.  He  passed  a  restful  night,  as  his 
father  observed  when  the  pair  met  at  the  breakfast- 
table. 

"Well,  how  do  you  feel  this  morning,  son?*'  the  old 
man  queried  kindly. 

"Considerably  better  than  I  did  before  our  talk  last 
night,  sir,"  Donald  answered. 

"I  haven't  slept,"  old  Hector  continued  calmly,  "al 
though  I  expect  to  have  a  little  nap  during  the  day. 
Just  about  daylight  a  comforting  thought  stole  over 
me." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  it,  dad." 

"I've  decided  to  repose  faith  in  Nan,  having  none  at 
all  in  you.  If  she  truly  loves  you,  she'll  die  before  she'll 
hurt  you." 

"Perhaps  it  may  be  a  comfort  to  you  to  know  that 
she  has  so  expressed  herself  to  me." 

"Bless  her  poor  heart  for  that !  However,  she  told 
me  practically  the  same  thing." 

158 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  159 

He  scooped  his  eggs  into  the  egg-cup  and  salted 
and  peppered  them  before  he  spoke  again.  Then: 

"We'll  not  discuss  this  matter  further.  All  I  ask  is 
that  you'll  confine  your  visits  to  the  Sawdust  Pile  to 
the  dark  of  the  moon ;  I  trust  to  your  natural  desire  to 
promote  my  peace  of  mind  to  see  to  it  that  no  word 
of  your — affair  reaches  your  mother  and  sisters. 
They'll  not  handle  you  with  the  tact  you've  had  from 
me." 

"I  can  well  believe  that,  sir.  Thank  you.  I  shall  ex 
ercise  the  utmost  deference  to  your  desires  consistent 
with  an  unfaltering  adherence  to  my  own  code." 

There  it  was  again — more  respectful  defiance !  Had 
he  not,  during  the  long,  distressing  hours  of  the  night, 
wisely  decided  to  leave  his  son's  case  in  the  hands  of 
God  and  Nan  Brent,  The  Laird  would  have  flown  into 
a  passion  at  that.  He  compromised  by  saying  noth 
ing,  and  the  meal  was  finished  in  silence. 

After  breakfast,  Donald  went  down  to  the  hospi 
tal  to  visit  Dirty  Dan.  O'Leary  was  still  alive,  but 
very  close  to  death;  he  had  lost  so  much  blood  that 
he  was  in  a  state  of  coma. 

"He's  only  alive  because  he's  a  fighter,  Mr.  Mc- 
Kaye,"  the  doctor  informed  Donald.  "If  I  can  induce 
some  good  healthy  man  to  consent  to  a  transfusion 
of  blood,  I  think  it  would  buck  Dan  up  considerably." 
"I'm  your  man,"  Donald  informed  him.  It  had  oc 
curred  to  him  that  Dirty  Dan  had  given  his  blood  for 
the  House  of  McKaye ;  therefore,  the  least  he  could  do 
was  to  make  a  partial  payment  on  the  debt. 

The  doctor,  knowing  nothing  of  the  reason  for  Dirty 
Dan's  predicament,  was  properly  amazed. 

"You — the   boss — desire    to    do    this?"    he    replied. 


160  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

"We  can  get  one  of  this  wild  rascal's  comrades " 

"That  wild  rascal  is  my  comrade,  doctor.  I'm  more 
or  less  fond  of  Dan."  He  had  removed  his  coat  and 
was  already  rolling  up  his  sleeve.  "I'm  half  Gael," 
he  continued  smilingly,  "and,  you  know,  w7e  must  not 
adulterate  Dirty  Dan's  blood  any  more  than  is  abso 
lutely  necessary.  Consider  the  complications  that 
might  ensue  if  you  gave  Dan  an  infusion  of  blood  from 
a  healthy  Italian.  The  very  first  fight  he  engaged 
in  after  leaving  this  hospital,  he'd  use  a  knife  instead 
of  nature's  weapons.  Get  busy !" 

But  the  doctor  would  take  no  liberties  with  the  life- 
blood  of  the  heir  of  Tyee  until  he  had  telephoned  to 
The  Laird. 

"My  son  is  the  captain  of  his  own  soul,"  old  Hector 
answered  promptly.  "You  just  see  that  you  do  your 
job  well;  don't  hurt  the  boy  or  weaken  him  too 
greatly." 

An  hour  after  the  operation,  father  and  son  sat  be 
side  Dirty  Dan's  bed.  Presently,  the  ivory-tinted  eye 
lids  flickered  slightly,  whereat  old  Hector  winked  sagely 
at  his  son.  Then  Dirty  Dan's  whiskered  upper  lip 
twisted  humorously,  and  he  whispered  audibly: 

"Ye  young  divil !  Oh-ho,  ye  young  vagabond ! 
Faith,  if  The  Laird  knew  what  ye're  up  to  this  night, 
he'd — break  yer — back — in  two  halves !" 

Hector  McKaye  glanced  apprehensively  about,  but 
the  nurse  had  left  the  room.  He  bent  over  Dirty  Dan. 

"Shut  up!"  he  commanded.  "Don't  tell  everything 
you  know!" 

O'Leary  promptly  opened  his  eyes  and  gazed  upon 
The  Laird  in  profound  puzzlement. 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  161 

"Wild  horrses  couldn't  dhrag  it  out  o'  me,"  he  pro 
tested.  "Ask  me  no  questions  an'  I'll  tell  ye  no  lies." 

He  subsided  into  unconsciousness  again.  The  doc 
tor  entered  and  felt  of  his  pulse. 

"On  the  up-grade,"  he  announced.     "He'll  do." 

"Dan  will  obey  the  voice  of  authority,  even  in  his 
delirium,"  The  Laird  whispered  to  his  son,  when  they 
found  themselves  alone  with  the  patient  once  more. 
"I'll  stay  here  until  he  wakes  up  rational,  and  silence 
him  if,  in  the  mean  time,  he  babbles.  Run  along  home, 
lad." 

At  noon,  Dirty  Dan  awoke  with  the  light  of  reason 
and  belligerency  in  his  eyes,  whereupon  The  Laird 
questioned  him,  and  developed  a  stubborn  reticence 
which  comforted  the  former  to  such  a  degree  that  he 
decided  to  follow  his  son  home  to  The  Dreamerie. 


XIX 

A  WEEK  elapsed  before  Hector  McKaye  would 
permit  his  son  to  return  to  his  duties.  By  that 
time,  the  slight  wound  in  the  latter's  arm  where  the 
vein  had  been  opened  had  practically  healed.  Dirty 
Dan  continued  to  improve,  passed  the  danger-mark, 
and  began  the  upward  climb  to  his  old  vigor  and  pug 
nacity.  Port  Agnew,  stirred  to  discussion  over  the 
affray,  forgot  it  i  dthin  three  days,  and  on  the  follow 
ing  Monday  morning  Donald  returned  to  the  woods. 
The  Laird  of  Tyee  carried  his  worries  to  the  Lord  in 
prayer,  and  Nan  Brent  frequently  forgot  her  plight 
and  sang  with  something  of  the  joy  of  other  days. 

A  month  passed.  During  that  month,  Donald  had 
visited  the  Sawdust  Pile  once  and  had  wri  ten  Nan 
thrice.  Also,  Mrs.  Andrew  Daney,  hard  bese  v  because 
of  her  second  experience  with  the  "Blue  Bonnet"  glance 
of  a  McKaye,  had  decided  to  remove  herself  from  the 
occasions  of  gossip  and  be  in  a  position  to  claim  an 
alibi  in  the  event  of  developments.  So  she  abandoned 
Daney  to  the  mercies  of  a  Japanese  cook  and  departed 
for  Whatcom  to  visit  a  married  daughter.  From 
Whatcom,  she  wrote  her  husband  that  she  was  enjoy 
ing  her  visit  so  much  she  hadn't  the  slightest  idea  when 
she  would  return,  and,  for  good  and  sufficient  reasons, 
Daney  did  not  urge  her  to  change  her  mind. 

Presently,  Mrs.  McKaye  and  her  daughters  returned 
to  Port  Agnew.  His  wife's  letters  to  The  Laird  had 

162 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  163 

failed  to  elicit  any  satisfactory  reason  for  his  con 
tinued  stay  at  home,  and  inasmuch  as  all  three  ladies 
were  deferring  the  trip  to  Honolulu  on  his  account, 
they  had  come  to  a  mutual  agreement  to  get  to  close 
quarters  and  force  a  decision. 

Mrs.  McKaye  had  been  inside  The  Dreamerie  some 
what  less  than  five  minutes  before  her  instinct  as  a 
woman,  coupled  with  her  knowledge  as  a  wife,  informed 
her  that  her  spouse  was  troubled  in  his  soul.  Always 
tactless,  she  charged  him  with  it,  and  when  he  denied 
it,  she  was  certain  of  it.  So  she  pressed  him  further, 
and  was  informed  that  he  had  a  business  deal  on ;  when 
she  interrogated  him  as  to  the  nature  of  it  (some 
thing  she  had  not  done  in  years),  he  looked  at  her 
and  smoked  contemplatively.  Immediately  she  changed 
the  subject  of  conversation,  but  made  a  mental  re 
solve  to  keep  her  eyes  and  her  ears  open. 

The  Fates  decreed  that  she  should  not  have  long  to 
wait.  Donald  came  home  from  the  logging-camp  the 
following  Saturday  night,  and  the  family,  having  fin 
ished  dinner,  were  seated  in  the  living-room.  The  Laird 
was  smoking  and  staring  moodily  out  to  sea,  Donald 
was  reading,  Jane  was  at  the  piano  softly  playing  rag 
time,  and  Mrs.  McKaye  and  Elizabeth  were  knitting 
socks  for  suffering  Armenians  when  the  telephone-bell 
rang.  Jane  immediately  left  the  piano  and  went  out 
into  the  entrance-hall  to  answer  it,  the  servants  having 
gone  down  to  Port  Agnew  to  a  motion-picture  show. 
A  moment  later,  she  returned  to  the  living-room,  leav 
ing  the  door  to  the  entrance-hall  open. 

"You're  wanted  on  the  telephone,  Don!"  she  cried 
gaily.  "Such  a  sweet  voice,  too !" 

Mrs.  MoKaye  and  Elizabeth  looked  up  from  their 


164  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

knitting.  They  were  not  accustomed  to  having  Donald 
calle^  to  cne  telephone  by  young  ladies.  Donald  laid 
his  magazine  aside  and  strode  to  the  telephone;  The 
Laird  faced  about  in  his  chair,  and  a  harried  look 
crept  into  his  eyes. 

"Close  the  door  to  the  entrance-hall,  Jane,"  he  com 
manded. 

"Oh,  dear  me,  no!"  his  spoiled  daughter  protested. 
"It  would  be  too  great  a  strain  on  our  feminine  curi 
osity  not  to  eavesdrop  on  Don's  little  romance." 

"Close  it !"  The  Laird  repeated.  He  was  too  late. 
Through  the  open  door,  Donald's  voice  reached  them: 

"Oh,  you  poor  girl !  I'm  so  sorry,  Nan  dear.  I'll  be 
over  immediately."  His  voice  dropped  several  octaves, 
but  the  words  came  to  the  listeners  none  the  less  dis 
tinctly.  "Be  brave,  sweetheart." 

Mrs.  McKay e  glanced  at  her  husband  in  time  to  see 
him  avert  his  face;  she  noted  how  he  clutched  the  arm 
of  his  chair. 

To  quote  a  homely  phrase,  the  cat  was  out  of  the 
bag  at  last.  Donald's  face  wore  a  troubled  expression 
as  he  reentered  the  living-room.  His  mother  spoke 
first. 

"Donald !    My  son !"  she  murmured  tragically. 

"Hum-m-!"  The  Laird  grunted.  The  storm  had 
broken  at  last,  and,  following  the  trend  of  human  na 
ture,  he  was  conscious  of  sudden  relief. 

Jane  was  the  first  to  recover  her  customary  aplomb. 

"Don  dear,"  she  cooed  throatily,  "are  we  mistaken 
in  our  assumption  that  the  person  with  whom  you  have 
just  talked  is  Nan  Brent?" 

"Your  penetration  does  you  credit,  Jane.     It  was." 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  165 

"And  did  our  ears  deceive  us  or  did  we  really  hear 
you  call  her  'dear'  and  'sweetheart'?" 

"It  is  quite  possible,"  Donald  answered.  He  crossed 
the  room  and  paused  beside  his  father.  "Caleb  Brent 
blinked  out  a  few  minutes  ago,  dad.  It  was  quite  sud 
den.  Heart-trouble.  Nan's  all  alone  down  there,  and 
of  course  she  needs  help.  I'm  going.  I'll  leave  to  you 
the  job  of  explaining  the  situation  to  mother  and  the 
girls.  Good-night,  pop ;  I  think  you  understand." 

Mrs.  McKaye  was  too  stunned,  too  horrified,  to  find 
refuge  in  tears. 

"How  dare  that  woman  ring  you  up?"  she  demanded 
haughtily.  "The  hussy !" 

"Why,  mother  dear,  she  has  to  have  help,"  her  son 
suggested  reproachfully. 

"But  why  from  you,  of  all  men?  I  forbid  you  to 
go!"  his  mother  quavered.  "You  must  have  more  re 
spect  for  us.  Why,  what  will  people  say?" 

"To  hell  with  what  people  say !  They'll  say  it,  any 
how,"  roared  old  Hector.  Away  down  in  his  proud 
old  heart  he  felt  a  few  cheers  rising  for  his  son's  manly 
action,  albeit  the  necessity  for  that  action  was  wring 
ing  his  soul.  "  'Tis  no  time  for  idle  spierin*.  Away 
with  you,  lad !  Comfort  the  puir  lass.  'Tis  no  harm 
to  play  a  man's  part.  Hear  me,"  he  growled;  "I'll 
nae  have  my  soncy  lad  abused." 

"Dad's  ^one  back  to  the  Hielands.  'Nough  said." 
Elizabeth  had  recovered  her  customary  jolly  poise. 
Wise  enough,  through  long  experience,  to  realize  that 
when  her  father  failed  to  throttle  that  vocal  heritage 
from  his  forebears,  war  impended,  she  gathered  up  her 
knitting  and  fled  to  her  room. 

Jane  ran  to  her  mother's  side,  drew  the  good 


166  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

head   down  on  her  shoulder,   and  faced  her  brother. 

"Shame!  Shame!"  she  cried  sharply.  "You  un 
grateful  boy !  How  could  you  hurt  dear  mother  so !" 

This  being  the  cue  for  her  mother  to  burst  into  vio 
lent  weeping,  forthwith  the  poor  soul  followed  up  the 
cue.  Donald,  sore  beset,  longed  to  take  her  in  his 
arms  and  kiss  away  her  tears,  but  something  warned 
him  that  such  action  would  merely  serve  to  accentu 
ate  the  domestic  tempest,  so,  with  a  despairing  glance 
at  old  Hector,  he  left  the  room. 

"Pretty  kettle  o'  fish  you've  left  me  to  bring  to  a 
boil !"  the  old  man  cried  after  him.  "O  Lord !  O  Lord  ! 
Grant  me  the  wisdom  of  Solomon,  the  patience  of  Job, 
and  the  cunning  of  Judas  Iscariot !  God  help  my  mil 
dewed  soul !" 


XX 


THE  instant  the  front  door  closed  behind  her  son, 
Mrs.  McKaye  recovered  her  composure.  Had  the 
reason  been  more  trifling,  she  would  have  wept  longer, 
but,  in  view  of  its  gravity,  her  common  sense  (she 
possessed  some,  when  it  pleased  her  to  use  it)  bade 
her  be  up  and  doing.  Also,  she  was  smitten  with  re 
morse.  She  told  herself  she  was  partly  to  blame  for 
this  scourge  that  had  come  upon  the  family;  she  hacl 
neglected  her  son  and  his  indulgent  father.  She,  who 
knew  so  well  the  peculiar  twists  of  her  husband's  mental 
and  moral  make-up,  should  not  be  surprised  if  he  cast 
a  tolerant  eye  upon  his  son's  philanderings ;  seemingly 
the  boy  had  always  been  able  to  twist  his  father  round 
his  finger,  so  to  speak.  She  sat  up,  dabbed  her  eyes, 
kissed  Jane  lovingly  as  who  should  say,  "Well,  thank 
God,  here  is  one  child  I  can  rely  upon,"  and  turned 
upon  the  culprit.  Her  opening  sentence  was  at  once 
a  summons  and  an  invitation. 

"Well,  Hector?" 

"It  happened  while  you  were  away — while  we  were 
both  away,  Nellie.  I  was  gone  less  than  forty-eight 
hours — and  he  had  compromised  himself." 

"You  don't  mean — really  compromised  himself!" 
Jane  cried  sharply,  thus  bringing  upon  her  The  Laird's 
attention.  He  appeared  to  transfix  her  with  his  index- 
finger. 

167 


168  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

"To  bed  with  you,  young  lady !"  he  ordered.  "Your 
mother  and  I  will  discuss  this  matter  without  any  of 
your  pert  suggestions  or  exclamations.  I'm  far  from 
pleased  with  you,  Jane.  I  told  you  to  shut  that  door, 
and  you  disobeyed  me.  For  that,  you  shall  suffer  due 
penance.  Six  months  in  Port  Agnew,  my  dear,  to  teach 
you  obedience  and  humility.  Go  !" 

Jane  departed,  sniffling,  and  this  stem  evidence  of 
The  Laird's  temper  was  not  lost  upon  his  wife.  She 
decided  to  be  tactful,  which,  in  her  case,  meant  pro 
ceeding  slowly,  speaking  carefully,  and  listening  well. 
Old  Hector  heaved  himself  out  of  his  great  chair,  came 
and  sat  down  on  the  divan  with  his  wife,  and  put  his 
arm  round  her. 

"Dear  old  Nellie !"  he  whispered,  and  kissed  her. 

For  the  moment,  they  were  lovers  of  thirty-odd  years 
agone;  their  children  forgotten,  they  were  sufficient 
unto  themselves. 

"I  know  just  how  you  feel,  Nellie.  I  have  done  my 
best  to  spare  you — I  have  not  connived  or  condoned. 
And  I'll  say  this  for  our  son :  He's  been  open  and  above- 
board  with  her  and  with  me.  He's  young,  and  in  a  mo 
ment  of  that  passion  that  comes  to  young  men — aye, 
and  young  women,  too,  for  you  and  I  have  known  it — 
he  told  her  what  was  in  his  heart,  even  while  his  head 
warned  him  to  keep  quiet.  It  seems  to  me  sometimes 
that  'tis  something  that  was  to  be." 

"Oh,  Hector,  it  mustn't  be !    It  cannot  be  I" 

"I'm  hoping  it  will  not  be,  Nellie.  I'll  do  my  best 
to  stop  it." 

"But,  Hector,  why  did  you  support  him  a  moment 
ago?" 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  169 

He  flapped  a  hand  to  indicate  a  knowledge  of  his  own 
incomprehensible  conduct. 

"She'd  called  for  him,  Nellie.  Poor  bairn,  her  heart 
went  out  to  the  one  she  knew  would  help  her,  and, 
by  God,  Nellie,  I  felt  for  her !  You're  a  woman,  Nellie. 
Think — if  one  of  your  own  daughters  was  wishful 
for  a  kind  word  and  a  helping  hand  from  an  honorable 
gentleman  and  some  fool  father  forbade  it.  Nellie  wife, 
my  heart  and  my  head  are  sore  tangled,  sore  tan- 
gled- » 

His  voice  broke.  He  was  shaken  with  emotion.  He 
had  stood  much  and  he  had  stood  it  alone ;  while  it  had 
never  occurred  to  him  to  think  so,  he  had  been  facing 
life  pretty  much  alone  for  a  decade.  It  would  have 
eased  his  surcharged  spirit  could  he  have  shed  a  few 
manly  tears,  if  his  wife  had  taken  his  leonine  old  head 
on  her  shoulder  and  lavished  upon  him  the  caresses 
his  hungry  heart  yearned  for.  Unfortunately,  she  was 
that  type  of  wife  whose  first  and  only  thought  is  for 
her  children.  She  was  aware  only  that  he  was  in  a 
softened  mood,  so  she  said, 

"Don't  you  think  you've  been  a  little  hard  on  poor 
Jane,  Hector  dear?" 

"No,  I  do  not.  She's  cruel,  selfish,  and  unchari 
table." 

"But  you'll  forgive  her  this  once,  won't  you,  dear?" 

He  considered. 

"Well,  if  she  doesn't  heckle  Donald—"  he  began,  but 
she  stopped  further  proviso  with  a  grateful  kiss,  and 
immediately  followed  Jane  up-stairs  to  break  the  good 
news  to  her.  She  and  Jane  then  joined  Elizabeth  in 
the  latter's  room,  and  the  trio  immediately  held  what 
their  graceless  relative  would  have  termed  "a  lodge  of 


170  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

sorrow."  Upon  motion  of  Jane,  seconded  by  Eliza 
beth,  it  was  unanimously  resolved  that  the  honor  of  the 
family  must  be  upheld.  At  all  cost.  They  laid  out  a 
plan  of  campaign. 


XXI 

UPON  his  arrival  in  Port  Agnew,  Donald  called 
upon  one  Sam  Carew.  In  his  youth,  Mr.  Carew 
had  served  his  time  as  an  undertaker's  assistant,  but 
in  Port  Agnew  his  shingle  proclaimed  him  to  his  world 
as  a  "mortician."  Owing  to  the  low  death-rate  in  that 
salubrious  section,  however,  Mr.  Carew  added  to  his 
labors  those  of  a  carpenter,  and  when  outside  jobs  of 
carpentering  were  scarce,  he  manufactured  a  few  plain 
and  fancy  coffins. 

Donald  routed  Sam  Carew  out  of  bed  with  the  news 
of  Caleb  Brent's  death  and  ordered  him  down  to  the 
Sawdust  Pile  in  his  capacity  of  mortician;  then  he 
hastened  there  himself  in  advance  of  Mr.  Carew.  Nan 
was  in  the  tiny  living-room,  her  head  pillowed  on  the 
table,  when  Donald  entered,  and  when  she  had  sobbed 
herself  dry-eyed  in  his  arms,  they  went  in  to  look  at 
old  Caleb.  He  had  passed  peacefully  away  an  hour 
after  retiring  for  the  night;  Nan  had  straightened 
his  limbs  and  folded  the  gnarled  hands  over  the  still 
heart;  in  the  great  democracy  of  death,  his  sad  old 
face  had  settled  into  peaceful  lines  such  as  had  been 
present  in  the  days  when  Nan  was  a  child  and  she  and 
her  father  had  been  happy  building  a  home  on  the  Saw 
dust  Pile.  As  Donald  looked  at  him  and  reflected  on 
the  tremendous  epics  of  a  career  that  the  world  re 
garded  as  commonplace,  when  he  recalled  the  sloop  old 
Caleb  had  built  for  him  with  so  much  pride  and  pleas- 

171 


178  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

ure,  the  long-forgotten  fishing  trips  and  races  in  the 
bight,  the  wondrous  tales  the  old  sailor  had  poured 
into  his  boyish  ears,  together  with  the  affection  and 
profound  respect,  as  for  a  superior  being,  which  the 
old  man  had  always  held  for  him,  the  young  laird  of 
Tyee  mingled  a  tear  or  two  with  those  of  the  orphaned 
Nan. 

"I've  told  Sam  Carew  to  come  for  him,"  he  informed 
Nan,  when  they  had  returned  to  the  living-room.  "I 
shall  attend  to  all  of  the  funeral  arrangements.  Fu 
neral  the  day  after  to-morrow,  say  in  the  morning. 
Are  there  any  relatives  to  notify?" 

"None  that  would  be  interested,  Donald." 

"Do  you  wish  a  religious  service?" 

"Certainly  not  by  the  Reverend  Tingley." 

"Then"  I'll  get  somebody  else.  Anything  else? 
Money,  clothes?" 

She  glanced  at  him  with  all  the  sweetness  and  ten 
derness  of  her  great  love  lambent  in  her  wistful  sea- 
blue  eyes. 

"What  a  poor  thing  is  pride  in  the  face  of  circum 
stances,"  she  replied  drearily.  "I  haven't  sufficient 
strength  of  character  to  send  you  away.  I  ought  to, 
for  your  own  sake,  but  since  you're  the  only  one  that 
cares,  I  suppose  you'll  have  to  pay  the  price.  You 
might  lend  me  a  hundred  dollars,  dear.  Perhaps  some 
day  I'll  repay  it." 

He  laid  the  money  in  her  hand  and  retained  the  hand 
in  his ;  thus  they  sat  gazing  into  the  blue  flames  of  the 
driftwood  fire — she  hopelessly,  he  with  masculine  help 
lessness.  Neither  spoke,  for  each  was  busy  with  per 
sonal  problems. 

The   arrival   of   Mr.    Carew   interrupted   their   sad 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  173 

thoughts.  When  he  had  departed  with  the  harvest  of 
his  grim  profession,  the  thought  that  had  been  upper 
most  in  Donald's  mind  found  expression. 

"It's  going  to  be  mighty  hard  on  you  living  here 
alone." 

"It's  going  to  be  hard  on  me  wherever  I  live — alone," 
she  replied  resignedly. 

"Wish  I  could  get  some  woman  to  come  and  live  with 
you  until  we  can  adjust  your  affairs,  Nan.  Tingley's 
wife's  a  good  sort.  Perhaps — 

She  shook  her  head. 

"I  prefer  my  own  company — when  I  cannot  have 
yours." 

A  wave  of  bitterness,  of  humiliation  swept  over  him 
in  the  knowledge  that  he  could  not  ask  one  of  his  own 
sisters  to  help  her.  Truly  he  dwelt  in  an  unlovely 
world. 

He  glanced  at  Nan  again,  and  suddenly  there  came 
over  him  a  great  yearning  to  share  her  lot,  even  at  the 
price  of  sharing  her  shame.  He  was  not  ashamed  of  her, 
and  she  knew  it ;  yet  both  were  fearful  of  revealing  that 
fact  to  their  fellow  mortals.  The  conviction  stole  over 
Donald  McKaye  that  he  was  not  being  true  to  himself, 
that  he  was  not  a  man  of  honor  in  the  fullest  sense  or 
a  gentleman  in  the  broadest  meaning  of  the  word. 
And  that,  to  the  heir  of  a  principality,  was  a  danger 
ous  thought. 

He  then  took  tender  leave  of  the  girl  and  walked 
all  the  way  home.  His  father  had  not  retired  when  he 
reached  The  Dreamerie,  and  the  sight  of  that  stern 
yet  kindly  and  wholly  understandable  person  moved 
him  to  sit  down  beside  The  Laird  on  the  divan  and  take 
the  old  man's  hand  in  his  childishly. 


174  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

"Dad,  I'm  in  hell's  own  hole !"  he  blurted.  "I'm  so 
unhappy !" 

"Yes,  son;  I  know  you  are.  And  it  breaks  me  all 
up  to  think  that,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  can't 
help  you.  All  the  money  in  the  world  will  not  buy  the 
medicine  that'll  cure  you." 

"I  have  to  go  through  that,  too,  I  suppose,"  his  son 
complained,  and  jerked  his  head  toward  the  stairs, 
where,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  his  sister  Jane  crouched 
at  the  time,  striving  to  eavesdrop.  "I  had  a  notion, 
as  I  walked  home,  that  I'd  refuse  to  permit  them  to 
discuss  my  business  with  me." 

"This  particular  business  of  yours  is,  unfortunately, 
something  which  they  believe  to  be  their  business,  also. 
God  help  me,  I  agree  with  them!" 

"Well,  they  had  better  be  mighty  careful  how  they 
speak  of  Nan  Brent,"  Donald  returned  darkly.  "This 
is  something  I  have  to  fight  out  alone.  By  the  way, 
are  you  going  to  old  Caleb's  funeral,  dad  ?" 

"Certainly.  I  have  always  attended  the  funerals  of 
my  neighbors,  and  I  liked  and  respected  Caleb  Brent. 
Always  reminded  me  of  a  lost  dog.  But  he  had  a  man's 
pride.  I'll  say  that  for  him." 

"Thank  you,  father.  Ten  o'clock,  the  day  after 
to-morrow,  from  the  little  chapel.  There  isn't  going  to 
be  a  preacher  present,  so  I'd  be  obliged  if  you'd  offer 
a  prayer  and  read  the  burial  service.  That  old  man 
and  I  were  pals,  and  I  want  a  real  human  being  to  pre 
side  at  his  obsequies." 

The  Laird  whistled  softly.  He  was  on  the  point  of 
asking  to  be  excused,  but  reflected  that  Donald  was 
bound  to  attend  the  funeral  and  that  his  father's  pres 
ence  would  tend  to  detract  from  the  personal  side  of 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  175 

the  unprecedented  spectacle  and  render  it  more  of  a 
matter  of  family  condescension  in  so  far  as  Port  Agnew 
was  concerned. 

"Very  well,  lad,"  he  replied ;  "I'm  forced  to  deny  you 
so  much  'twould  be  small  of  me  not  to  grant  you  a  wee 
favor  now  and  then.  I'll  do  my  best.  And  you  might 
send  a  nurse  from  the  company  hospital  to  stay  with 
Nan  for  a  week  or  two." 

"Good  old  file!"  his  son  murmured  gratefully,  and, 
bidding  his  father  good-night,  climbed  the  stairs  to 
his  room.  Hearing  his  footsteps  ascending,  Jane 
emerged  from  the  rear  of  the  landing;  simultaneously, 
his  mother  and  Elizabeth  appeared  at  the  door  of  the 
latter's  room.  He  had  the  feeling  of  a  captured  mis 
sionary  running  the  gantlet  of  a  forest  of  spears  en 
route  to  a  grill  over  a  bed  of  coals. 

"Donald  dear,"  Elizabeth  called  throatily,  "come 
here." 

"Donald  dear  is  going  to  bed,"  he  retorted  savagely. 
"  'Sufficient  unto  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof.*  Good 
night  !" 

"But  you  must  discuss  this  matter  with  us !"  Jane 
clamored.  "How  can  you  expect  us  to  rest  until  we 
have  your  word  of  honor  that  you — 

The  Laird  had  appeared  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs, 
having  followed  his  son  in  anticipation  of  an  interview 
which  he  had  forbidden. 

"Six  months,  Janey,"  he  called  up;  "and  there'll 
be  no  appeal  from  that  decision.  Nellie!  Elizabeth! 
Poor  Jane  will  be  lonesome  in  Port  Agnew,  and  I'm  not 
wishful  to  be  too  hard  on  her.  You'll  keep  her  com 
pany." 


176  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

There  was  a  sound  of  closing  doors,  and  silence  set 
tled  over  The  Dreamerie,  that  little  white  home  that 
The  Laird  of  Tyee  had  built  and  dedicated  to  peace 
and  love.  For  he  was  the  master  here. 


XXII 

CALEB  BRENT'S  funeral  was  the  apotheosis  of 
simplicity.  Perhaps  a  score  of  the  old  sailor's 
friends  and  neighbors  attended,  and  there  were,  per 
haps,  half  a  dozen  women — motherly  old  souls  who 
had  known  Nan  intimately  in  the  days  when  she  asso 
ciated  with  their  daughters  and  who  felt  in  the  pres 
ence  of  death  a  curious  unbending  of  a  curious  and  in 
definable  hostility.  Sam  Carew,  arrayed  in  the  con 
ventional  habiliments  of  his  profession,  stood  against 
the  wall  and  closed  his  eyes  piously  when  Hector  Mc- 
Kaye,  standing  beside  old  Caleb,  spoke  briefly  and 
kindly  of  the  departed  and  with  a  rough  eloquence  that 
stirred  none  present — not  even  Nan,  who,  up  to  that 
moment,  entirely  ignorant  of  The  Laird's  intention, 
could  only  gaze  at  him,  amazed  and  incredulous — more 
than  it  stirred  The  Laird  himself.  The  sonorous  and 
beautiful  lines  of  the  burial  service  took  on  an  added 
beauty  and  dignity  as  he  read  them,  for  The  Laird 
believed !  And  when  he  had  finished  reading  the  ser 
vice,  he  looked  up,  and  his  kind  gaze  lay  gently  on  Nan 
Brent  as  he  said: 

"My  friends,  we  will  say  a  wee  bit  prayer  for  Caleb 
wi'  all  the  earnestness  of  our  hearts.  O  Lorrd,  now  that 
yon  sailor  has  towed  out  on  his  last  long  cruise,  we 
pray  thee  to  gie  him  a  guid  pilot—  aye,  an  archangel, 
for  he  was  ever  an  honest  man  and  brave — to  guide 
him  to  thy  mansion.  Forgie  him  his  trespasses  and 

177 


178  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

in  thy  great  mercy  grant  comfort  to  this  poor  bairn 
he  leaves  behind.  And  thine  shall  be  the  honor  and 
the  glory,  forever  and  ever.  Amen !" 

None  present,  except  Donald,  realized  the  earnest 
ness  of  that  prayer,  for,  as  always  under  the  stress  of 
deep  emotion,  The  Laird  had  grown  Scotchy.  Mrs. 
Tingley,  a  kindly  little  soul  who  had  felt  it  her  Chris 
tian  duty  to  be  present,  moved  over  to  the  little  organ, 
and  Nan,  conspicuous  in  a  four-year-old  tailored  .suit 
and  a  black  sailor-hat,  rose  calmly  from  her  seat 
and  stood  beside  the  minister's  wife.  For  a  moment,  her 
glance  strayed  over  the  little  audience.  Then  she  sang — 
not  a  hymn,  but  just  a  little  song  her  father  had 
always  liked — the  haunting,  dignified  melody  that  has 
been  set  to  Stevenson's  "Requiem." 

Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky, 
Dig  the  grave  and  let  me  lie. 
Glad  did  I  live  and  gladly  die, 

And  I  laid  me  down  with  a  will. 

This  be  the  verse  you  grave  for  me: 
Here  he  lies  where  he  longed  to  be. 
Home  is  the  sailor,  home  from  sea, 

And  the  hunter,  home  from  the  hill. 

The  Laird,  watching  her  narrowly,  realized  the  ef 
fort  it  was  costing  her;  yet  her  glorious  voice  did  not 
break  or  quiver  once.  "You  wonderful,  wonderful 
woman !"  he  thought,  moved  to  a  high  pitch  of  admira 
tion  for  her  independence  and  her  flagrant  flaunting 
of  tradition.  "What  a  wife  for  my  boy — what  a 
mother  for  my  grandson — if  you  hadn't  spoiled  it  all !" 

She  rode  to  the  cemetery  in  The  Laird's  car  with 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  179 

The  Laird,  Donald,  and  Mrs.  Tingley.  Leaning  on 
Donald's  arm,  she  watched  them  hide  old  Caleb  be 
neath  the  flowers  from  the  gardens  of  The  Dreamerie; 
then  The  Laird  read  the  service  at  the  grave  and  they 
returned  to  the  Sawdust  Pile,  where  Nan's  child  (he 
had  been  left  at  home  in  charge  of  a  nurse  from  the 
Tyee  Lumber  Company's  hospital)  experienced  more 
or  less  difficulty  deciding  whether  Donald  or  The  Laird 
was  his  father. 

The  Laird  now  considered  his  duty  to  Caleb  Brent 
accomplished.  He  remained  at  the  Sawdust  Pile  a 
period  barely  sufficient  for  Nan  to  express  her  sense  of 
obligation. 

"In  a  month,  my  dear  girl,"  he  whispered,  as  he 
took  her  hand,  "you'll  have  had  time  to  adjust  your 
self  and  decide  on  the  future.  Then  we'll  have  a  little 
talk." 

She  smiled  bravely  up  at  him  through  misty  eyes 
and  shook  her  head.  She  read  his  thoughts  far  better 
than  he  knew. 

Father  and  son  repaired  to  the  private  office  at  the 
mill,  and  The  Laird  seated  himself  in  his  old  swivel 
chair. 

"Now  then,  lad,"  he  demanded,  "have  I  been  a  good 
sport?" 

"You  have,  indeed,  father!     I'm  grateful  to  you." 

"You  needn't  be.  I  wouldn't  have  missed  that  funer 
al  for  considerable.  That  girl  can  sing  like  an  angel, 
and,  man,  the  courage  of  her!  'Twas  sweet  of  her, 
singing  to  old  Caleb  like  that,  but  I  much  mistake  if 
she  won't  be  talked  about  for  it.  'Twill  be  said  she's 
hearties?."  He  handed  his  son  a  cigar  and  snipped 
the  end  off  one  for  himself.  "We'll  be  needing  the 


180  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

Sawdust  Pile  now  for  a  drying-yard,"  he  announced 
complacently. 

"You  mean- " 

"I  mean,  my  son,  that  you're  dreaming  of  the  im 
possible,  and  that  it's  time  for  you  to  wake  up.  I  want 
no  row  about  it.  I  can't  bear  to  hear  your  mother 
and  sisters  carrying  on  longer.  I'll  never  get  over 
thinking  what  a  pity  it  is  that  girl  is  damaged  goods. 
She  must  not  be  wife  to  son  of  mine." 

The  young  laird  of  Tyee  bowed  his  head. 

"I  can't  give  her  up,  father,"  he  murmured.  "By 
God,  I  can't!" 

"There  can  be  no  happiness  without  honor,  and 
3'ou'll  not  be  the  first  to  make  our  name  a  jest  in  the 
mouths  of  Port  Agnew.  You  will  write  her  and  tell 
her  of  my  decision ;  if  you  do  not  wish  to,  then  I  shall 
do  it  for  you.  Trust  her  to  understand  and  not  hold 
it  against  you.  And  it  is  my  wish  that  you  should 
not  see  her  again.  She  must  be  cared  for,  but  when 
that  time  comes,  I  shall  attend  to  it ;  you  know  me  well 
enough  to  realize  I'll  do  that  well."  He  laid  his  hand 
tenderly  on  the  young  man's  shoulder.  "This  is  your 
first  love,  my  son.  Time  and  hard  work  will  help  you 
forget — and  I'll  wait  for  my  grandson." 

"And  if  I  should  not  agree  to  this — what?" 

"Obey  me  for  a  month — and  then  ask  me  that  ques 
tion  if  you  will.  I'm — I'm  a  bit  unprepared  for  an 
answer  on  such  short  notice." 

Donald  bowed  his  head. 

"Very  well,  sir.  I'll  think  it  over  for  a  month — on 
one  condition." 

"Thank  you,  my  son,"  said  The  Laird  of  Tyee. 
"And  what  is  the  condition?" 


'     f 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  181 

"Let  mother  and  the  girls  go  to  Seattle  or  Hono 
lulu  or  Shanghai  or  some  other  seaport — anywhere, 
provided  they're  not  at  The  Dreamerie  when  I  return 
to  Port  Agnew.  I'm  going  to  spend  that  damnable 
month  in  the  woods,  week-ends  and  all,  and  wrestle 
with  this  problem." 

Old  Hector  smiled  a  small  smile. 

"I'm  an  old  ass,"  he  declared.  "Have  it  your  own 
way,  only — by  the  gods,  I  ought  to  teach  them  sense. 
I've  spoiled  them,  and  I  ought  to  unspoil  them.  They 
drive  me  crazy,  much  as  I  love  them." 

The  Laird  \^ent  home  that  afternoon  lighter  of  heart 
than  he  had  be^n  for  a  month.  He  told  himself  that 
his  firm  stand  with  Donald  had  rather  staggered  that 
young  man,  and  that  a  month  of  reflection,  far  from 
the  disturbing  influence  of  Nan  Brent's  magnetic  pres 
ence,  would  induce  Donald  to  adopt  a  sensible  course. 


XXIII 

SINCE  that  night  when  Mr.  Daney,  standing  aloof 
in  the  dark  vacant  lot  close  to  the  Sawdust  Pile, 
had  seen  Donald  McKaye,  in  the  light  cast  through 
the  open  door  of  Caleb  Brent's  cottage,  take  Nan  Brent 
in  his  arms  and  kiss  her,  since  he  had  heard  Nan  Brent's 
voice  apply  to  the  young  laird  of  Port  Agnew  a  term 
so  endearing  as  to  constitute  a  verbal  caress,  his  prac 
tical  and  unromantic  soul  had  been  in  a  turmoil  of 
apprehension. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  in  old  Hector  he  noted 
signs  of  deep  mental  perturbation.  Also,  he  told  him 
self,  he  detected  more  shades  than  lights  in  Donald's 
usually  pleasant  features ;  so,  knowing  full  well  that 
which  he  knew  and  which  neither  The  Laird  nor  Don 
ald  suspected  him  of  knowing,  to  wit :  that  a  decla 
ration  of  love  had  been  made  between  Nan  Brent  and 
the  heir  to  the  Tyee  millions,  Mr.  Daney  came  to  the 
conclusion,  one  evening  about  a  week  after  old  Caleb's 
funeral,  that  something  had  to  be  done — and  done 
quickly — to  avert  the  scandal  which  impended.  To 
his  way  of  reasoning,  however,  it  appeared  that  noth 
ing  along  this  line  was  possible  of  accomplishment  while 
Nan  Brent  remained  in  Port  Agnew;  so  Mr.  Daney 
brought  to  play  all  of  his  considerable  intelligence  upon 
the  problem  of  inducing  her  to  leave. 

Now,  to  render  Port  Agnew  untenable  for  Nan, 
thus  forcing  her  to  retreat,  was  a  task  which  Mr. 

182 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  183 

Daney  dismissed  not  only  as  unworthy  of  him  but 
also  as  impossible.  As  a  director  of  the  Bank  of  Port 
Agnew,  he  had  little  difficulty  in  ascertaining1  that 
Caleb  Brent's  savings-account  had  been  exhausted; 
also,  he  realized  that  the  chartering  of  Caleb's  motor- 
boat,  Brutus,  to  tow  the  municipal  garbage-barge 
to  sea  and  return,  had  merely  been  Donald's  excuse  to 
be  kind  to  the  Brents  without  hurting  their  gentle 
pride.  To  cancel  the  charter  of  the  Brutus  now  woulo! 
force  Nan  to  leave  Port  Agnew  in  order  to  support 
herself,  for  Daney  could  see  to  it  that  no  one  in  Port 
Agnew  employed  her,  even  had  anyone  in  Port  Agnew 
dared  run  such  risk.  Also,  the  Tyee  Lumber  Com 
pany  might  bluff  her  out  of  possession  of  the  Sawdust 
Pile.  However,  Donald  would  have  to  be  reckoned  with 
in  either  case,  and  Mr.  Daney  was  not  anxious  to 
have  the  weight  of  his  young  master's  anger  fall  on 
his  guilty  head.  He  saw,  therefore,  that  some  indi 
rect  means  must  be  employed. 

Now,  Mr.  Daney  wisely  held,  in  contradiction  to 
any  number  of  people  not  quite  so  hard-headed  as 
he,  that  absence  does  not  tend  to  make  the  heart  grow 
fonder — particularly  if  sufficient  hard  work  and  worry 
can  be  supplied  to  prevent  either  party  to  the  separa 
tion  thinking  too  long  or  too  intensely  of  the  ab 
sentee.  Within  a  decent  period  following  Nan's  hoped- 
for  departure  from  Port  Agnew,  Mr.  Daney  planned 
to  impress  upon  The  Laird  the  desirability  of  a  trip 
to  the  Orient,  while  he,  Daney,  upon  the  orders  of  a 
nerve-specialist,  took  a  long  sea  voyage.  Immedi 
ately  the  entire  burden  of  seeing  that  the  T^ee  Lumber 
Company  functioned  smoothly  and  profitably  would 
fall  upon  Donald's  young  and  somewhat  inexperienced 


184  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

shoulders.  In  the  meantime,  what  with  The  Laird's 
money  and  the  employment  of  a  third  party  or  parties, 
it  would  be  no  trick  at  all  to  induce  Nan  Brent  to 
move  so  far  from  Port  Agnew  that  Donald  could  not, 
in  justice  to  his  business  interests,  desert  those  in 
terests  in  order  to  pay  his  court  to  her. 

"Dog  my  cats!"  Mr.  Daney  murmured,  at  the  end 
of  a  long  period  of  perplexity.  "I  have  to  force  the 
girl  out  of  Port  Agnew,  and  I  can  never  do  so  while 
that  motor-boat  continues  to  pay  her  eighty  dollars 
a  month.  She  cannot  exist  on  eighty  dollars  a  month 
elsewhere,  but  she  can  manage  very  nicely  on  it  here. 
And  yet,  even  with  that  confounded  charter  canceled, 
we're  stuck  with  the  girl.  She  cannot  leave  Port 
Agnew  without  sufficient  funds  to  carry  her  through 
for  a  while,  and  she'd  die  before  she'd  accept  the  gift 
of  a  penny  from  anybody  in  Port  Agnew,  particularly 
the  McKayes.  Even  a  loan  from  The  Laird  would 
be  construed  as  a  roundabout  way  of  buying  her  off." 

Mr.  Daney  pondered  his  problem  until  he  was  al 
most  tempted  to  butt  his  poor  head  against  the  office 
wall,  goat-fashion,  in  an  attempt  to  stimulate  some 
new  ideas  worth  while.  Nevertheless,  one  night  he 
walrened  from  a  sound  sleep  and  found  himself  sit 
ting  up  in  bed,  the  possessor  of  a  plan  so  flawless  that, 
in  sheer  amazement,  he  announced  aloud  that  he  would 
be — jiggered.  Some  cunning  little  emissary  of  the 
devil  must  have  crept  in  through  his  ear  while  he 
slept  and  planted  the  brilliant  idea  in  Mr.  Daney's 
brain. 

Eventually,  Mr.  Daney  lay  down  again.  But  he 
could  not  go  to  sleep ;  so  he  turned  on  the  electric  bed 
side-lamp  and  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  midnight 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  185 

— and  at  midnight  no  living  creature,  save  possibly 
an  adventurous  or  amorous  cat,  moved  in  Port  Ag- 
new ;  so  Mr.  Daney  dressed,  crept  down-stairs  on  velvet 
feet,  in  order  not  to  disturb  the  hired  girl,  and  stepped 
forth  into  the  night.  Ten  minutes  later,  he  was  down 
at  the  municipal  garbage-barge,  moored  to  the  bulk 
head  of  piles  along  the  bank  of  the  Skookum. 

He  ventured  to  strike  a  match.  The  gunwale  of  the 
barge  was  slightly  below  the  level  of  the  bulkhead ; 
so  Mr.  Daney  realized  that  the  tide  had  turned  and 
was  at  the  ebb — otherwise,  the  gunwale  would  have 
been  on  a  level  with  the  bulkheads.  He  stepped  down 
on  the  barge,  made  his  way  aft  to  the  Brutus,  moored 
astern,  and  boarded  the  little  vessel.  He  struck  an 
other  match  and  looked  into  the  cabin  to  make  certain 
that  no  member  of  the  barge-crew  slept  there.  Find 
ing  no  one,  he  went  into  the  engine-room  and  opened 
the  sea-cock.  Then  he  lifted  up  a  floor-board,  looked 
into  the  bilge,  saw  that  the  water  therein  was  rising, 
and  murmured, 

"Bully— by  heck!" 

He  clambered  hastily  back  aboard  the  barge,  cast 
off  the  mooring-lines  of  the  Brutus,  and  with  a  boat- 
book  gave  her  a  shove  which  carried  her  out  into  the 
middle  of  the  river.  She  went  bobbing  away  gentty 
on  the  ebb-tide,  bound  for  the  deep  water  out  in  the 
Bight  of  Tyee  where,  when  she  settled,  she  would  be 
hidden  forever  and  not  be  a  menace  to  navigation. 
Mr.  Daney  watched  her  until  she  disappeared  in  the 
dim  starlight  before  returning  to  his  home  and  so, 
like  Mr.  Pepys,  to  bed,  where  he  had  the  first  real  sleep 
in  weeks.  He  realized  this  in  the  morning  and  mar 
veled  at  it,  for  he  had  always  regarded  himself  as 


186  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

a  man  of  tender  conscience  and  absolutely  incapable 
of  committing  a  maritime  crime.  Nevertheless,  he 
whistled  and  wore  a  red  carnation  in  his  lapel  as  he 
departed  for  the  mill  office. 


XXIV 

FOLLOWING  the  interview  with  his  father,  subse 
quent  to  Caleb  Brent's  funeral,  Donald  McKaye 
realized  full  well  that  his  love-affair,  hitherto  indefi 
nite  as  to  outcome,  had  crystallized  into  a  definite 
issue.  For  him,  there  could  be  no  evasion  or  equivo 
cation;  he  had  to  choose,  promptly  and  for  all  time, 
between  his  family  and  Nan  Brent — between  respec 
tability,  honor,  wealth,  and  approbation  on  one  hand, 
and  pity,  contempt,  censure,  and  poverty  on  the  other. 
Confronting  this  impasse,  he  was  too  racked  with  tor 
ment  to  face  his  people  that  night  and  run  the  gantlet 
of  his  mother's  sad,  reproachful  glances,  his  father's 
silence,  so  eloquent  of  mental  distress,  and  the  studied 
scorn,  amazement,  and  contempt  in  the  very  attitudes 
of  his  selfish  and  convention-bound  sisters.  So  he 
ate  his  dinner  at  the  hotel  in  Port  Agnew,  and  after 
dinner  his  bruised  heart  took  command  of  his  feet 
and  marched  him  to  the  Sawdust  Pile. 

The  nurse  he  had  sent  down  from  the  Tyee  Lum 
ber  Company's  hospital  to  keep  Nan  company  until 
after  the  funeral  had  returned  to  the  hospital,  and 
Nan,  with  her  boy  asleep  in  her  lap,  was  seated  in 
a  low  rocker  before  the  driftwood  fire  when  Donald 
entered,  unannounced  save  for  his  old-time  triple  tap 
at  the  door.  At  first  glance,  it  was  evident  tc  him 
that  the  brave  reserve  which  Nan  had  maintained  at 
the  funeral  had  given  way  to  abundant  tears  when 

187 


188  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

she  found  herself  alone  at  home,  screened  from  the 
gaze  of  the  curious. 

He  knelt  and  took  both  outcasts  in  his  great  strong 
arms,  and  for  a  long  time  held  them  in  a  silence  more 
eloquent  than  words. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  she  said  presently,  "aren't  you  go 
ing  to  tell  me  all  about  it?" 

That  was  the  woman  of  it.     She  knew. 

"I'm  terribly  unhappy,"  he  replied.  "Dad  and  I 
had  a  definite  show-down  after  the  funeral.  His  or 
der — not  request — is  that  I  shall  not  call  here  again." 

"Your  father  is  thinking  with  his  head ;  so  he  thinks 
clearly.  You,  poor  dear,  are  thinking  with  your  heart 
controlling  your  head.  Of  course  you'll  obey  your 
father.  You  cannot  consider  doing  anything  else." 

"I'm  not  going  to  give  you  up,"  he  asserted  dog 
gedly. 

"Yes ;  you  are  going  to  give  me  up,  dear  heart," 
she  replied  evenly.  "Because  I'm  going  to  give  you 
up,  and  you're  much  too  fine  to  make  it  hard  for  me 
to  do  that." 

"I'll  not  risk  your  contempt  for  my  weakness.  It 
would  be  a  weakness — a  contemptible  trick — if  I  should 
desert  you  now." 

"Your  family  has  a  greater  claim  on  you,  Donald. 
You  were  born  to  a  certain  destiny — to  be  a  leader  of 
men,  to  develop  your  little  world,  and  make  of  it  a 
happier  place  for  men  and  women  to  dwell  in.  So,  dear 
love,  you're  just  going  to  buck  up  and  be  spunky  and 
take  up  your  big  life-task  and  perform  it  like  the  gen 
tleman  you  are." 

"But  what  is  to  become  of  you?"  he  demanded,  in 
desperation. 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  189 

"I  do  not  know.  It  is  a  problem  I  am  not  going 
to  consider  very  seriously  for  at  least  a  month.  Of 
course  I  shall  leave  Port  Agnew,  but  before  I  do,  I 
shall  have  to  make  some  clothes  for  baby  and  myself." 

"I  told  my  father  I  would  give  him  a  definite  answer 
regarding  you  in  a  month,  Nan.  I'm  going  up  in  the 
woods  and  battle  this  thing  out  by  myself." 

"Please  go  home  and  give  him  a  definite  answer  to 
night.  You  have  not  the  right  to  make  him  suffer 
so,"  she  pleaded. 

"I'm  not  prepared  to-night  to  abandon  you,  Nan. 
I  must  have  some  time  to  get  inured  to  the  prospect." 

"Did  you  come  over  to-night  to  tell  me  good-by 
before  going  back  to  the  woods,  Donald?" 

He  nodded,  and  deliberately  she  kissed  him  with 
great  tenderness. 

"Then — good-by,  sweetheart,"  she  whispered.  "In. 
our  case,  the  least  said  is  soonest  mended.  And  please 
do  not  write  to  me.  Keep  me  but  of  your  thoughts  for 
a  month,  and  perhaps  I'll  stay  out." 

"No  hope,"  he  answered,  with  a  lugubrious  smile. 
"However,  I'll  be  as  good  as  I  can.  And  I'll  not  write. 
But — when  I  return  from  that  month  of  exile,  do  not. 
be  surprised  if  I  appear  to  claim  you  for  good  or  for 
evil,  for  better  or  for  worse." 

She  kissed  him  again — hurriedly — and  pressed  him 
gently  from  her,  as  if  his  persistence  gave  her  cause 
for  apprehension. 

"Dear  old  booby !"  she  murmured.  "Run  along  home 
now,  won't  you,  please?" 

So  he  went,  wondering  why  he  had  come,  and  the 
following  morning,  still  wrapped  in  a  mental  fog,  he 
departed  for  the  logging-camp,  but  not  until  his  sister 


190  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

Jane  had  had  her  long-deferred  inning.  While  he  was 
in  the  garage  at  The  Dreamerie,  warming  up  his  car, 
Jane  appeared  and  begged  him  to  have  some  respect 
for  the  family,  even  though,  apparently,  he  had  none 
for  himself.  Concluding  a  long  and  bitter  tirade,  she 
referred  to  Nan  as  "that  abandoned  girl." 

Poor  Jane !  Hardly  had  she  uttered  the  words  before 
her  father  appeared  in  the  door  of  the  garage. 

"One  year,  Janey,"  he  announced  composedly.  "And 
I'd  be  pleased  to  see  the  photograph  o'  the  human  being 
that'll  make  me  revoke  that  sentence.  I'm  fair  weary 
having  my  work  spoiled  by  women's  tongues." 

"I'll  give  you  my  photograph,  old  pepper-pot," 
Donald  suggested.  "I  have  great  influence  with  you, 
have  I  not?" 

The  Laird  looked  up  at  him  with  a  fond  grin. 

"Well?"  he  parried. 

"You  will  remit  the  sentence  to  one  washing  of  the 
mouth  with  soap  and  water  to  cleanse  it  of  those  horrid 
words  you  just  listened  to." 

"That's  not  a  bad  idea,"  the  stern  old  man  answered. 
"Janey,  you  may  have  your  choice,  since  Donald  has 
interceded  for  you." 

But  Jane  maintained  a  freezing  silence  and  swept 
out  of  the  garage  with  a  mien  that  proclaimed  her 
belief  that  her  brother  and  father  were  too  vulgar 
and  plebeian  for  her. 

"I'm  having  the  deil's  own  time  managing  my  fam 
ily,"  old  Hector  complained,  "but  I'll  have  obedience 
and  kindness  and  justice  in  my  household,  or  know  the 
reason  why.  Aye — and  a  bit  of  charity,"  he  added 
grimly.  He  stood  beside  the  automobile  and  held  up 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  191 

his  hand  up  for  his  son's.  "And  you'll  be  gone  a  month, 
lad?"  he  queried. 

Donald  nodded. 

"Too  painful — this  coming  home  week-ends,"  he  ex 
plained.  "And  Nan  has  requested  that  I  see  no  more 
of  her.  You  have  a  stanch  ally  in  her,  dad.  She's  for 
you  all  the  way." 

Relief  showed  in  his  father's  troubled  face. 

"I'm  glad  to  know  that,"  he  replied.  "You're  the 
one  that's  bringing  me  worry  and  breaking  down  her 
good  resolutions  and  common  sense."  He  leaned  a 
little  closer,  first  having  satisfied  himself,  by  a  quick, 
backward  glance,  that  none  of  the  women  of  the  family 
was  eavesdropping,  and  whispered :  "I'm  trying  to  figure 
out  a  nice  way  to  be  kind  to  her  and  give  her  a  good 
start  in  life  without  insulting  her.  If  you  should  have 
a  clear  thought  on  the  subject,  I'd  like  your  advice,  son. 
'Twould  hurt  me  to  have  her  think  I  was  trying  to  buy 
her  off." 

"As  I  view  the  situation,  all  three  of  us  have  to  figure 
our  own  angles  for  ourselves.  However,  if  a  happy 
thought  should  dawn  on  me,  I'll  write  you.  Think  it 
over  a  few  weeks,  and  then  do  whatever  seems  best.'* 

So  they  parted. 


XXV 

A  FEW  days  subsequent  to  Andrew  Daney's  secret 
scuttling  of  the  motor-boat  Brutus,  Nan  Brent 
was  amazed  to  receive  a  visit  from  him. 

"Good-morning,  Nan,"  he  saluted  her.  "I  have  bad 
news  for  you." 

"What,  pray?"  she  managed  to  articulate.  She  won 
dered  if  Donald  had  been  injured  up  in  the  woods. 

"Your  motor-boat's  gone." 

This  was,  indeed,  bad  news.  Trouble  showed  in  Nan's 
face. 

"Gone  where?"  she  faltered. 

"Nobody  knows.  It  disappeared  from  the  garbage- 
barge,  alongside  of  which  it  was  moored.  I've  had  men 
searching  for  it  two  days,  but  we've  given  it  up  as 
lost.  Was  the  Brutus,  by  any  chance,  insured  against 
theft?" 

"Certainly  not." 

"Well,  the  Tyee  Lumber  Company  used  reasonable 
care  to  conserve  your  property,  and  while  there's  a 
question  whether  the  company's  responsible  for  the  loss 
of  the  boat  if  it's  been  stolen,  even  while  under  charter 
to  us,  nevertheless,  you  will  be  reimbursed  for  the  value* 
of  the  boat.  Your  father  had  it  up  for  sale  last  year. 
Do  you  recall  the  price  he  was  asking?" 

"He  was  asking  considerably  less  than  he  really 
believed  the  Brutus  to  be  worth,"  Nan  replied  honestly. 
"He  would  have  sold  for  fifteen  hundred  dollars,  but 

192 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  193 

the  Brutus  was  worth  at  least  twenty-five  hundred. 
Values  shrink,  you  know,  when  one  requires  ready  cash. 
And  I  do  not  agree  with  you  that  no  responsibility 
attaches  to  the  Tyee  Lumber  Company,  although,  under 
the  circumstances,  it  appears  there  is  no  necessity  for 
argument." 

"We'll  pay  twenty-five  hundred  rather  than  descend 
to  argument,"  Daney  replied  crisply,  "although  per 
sonally  I  am  of  the  opinion  that  two  thousand  would 
be  ample."  He  coughed  a  propitiatory  cough  and 
looked  round  the  Sawdust  Pile  appraisingly.  "May  I 
inquire,  my  girl,"  he  asked  presently,  "what  are  your 
plans  for  the  future?" 

"Certainly,  Mr.  Daney.     I  have  none." 

"It  would  be  a  favor  to  the  Tyee  Lumber  Company 
if  you  had,  and  that  they  contemplated  removal  to 
some  other  house.  The  Laird  had  planned  originally 
to  use  the  Sawdust  Pile  for  a  drying-yard" — he  smiled 
faintly — "but  abandoned  the  idea  rather  than  interfere 
with  your  father's  comfort.  Of  course,  The  Laird 
hasn't  any  more  title  to  the  Sawdust  Pile  than  you 
have — not  as  much,  in  fact,  for  I  do  believe  you  could 
make  a  squatter's  right  stick  in  any  court.  Just  at 
present,  however,  we  have  greater  need  of  the  Sawdust 
Pile  than  ever.  We're  getting  out  quite  a  lot  of  air 
plane  spruce  for  the  British  government,  and  since 
there's  no  doubt  we'll  be  into  the  war  ourselves  one  of 
these  days,  we'll  have  to  furnish  additional  spruce  for 
our  own  government.  Spruce  has  to  be  air-dried,  you 
know,  to  obtain  the  best  results,  and — well,  we  really 
need  the  Sawdust  Pile.  What  will  you  take  to  abandon 
it  and  leave  us  in  undisputed  possession?" 

"Nothing,  Mr.  D'aney." 


194  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

"Nothing?" 

"Precisely — nothing.  We  have  always  occupied  it  on 
The  Laird's  sufferance,  so  I  do  not  think,  Mr.  Daney," 
she  explained,  with  a  faint  smile,  "that  I  shall  turn 
pirate  and  ingrate  now.  If  you  will  be  good  enough  to 
bring  me  over  twenty-five  hundred  dollars  in  cash  to 
day,  I  will  give  you  a  clearance  for  the  loss  of  the 
Brutus  and  abandon  the  Sawdust  Pile  to  you  within 
the  next  three  or  four  days." 

His  plan  had  worked  so  successfully  that  Daney  was, 
for  the  moment,  rendered  incapable  of  speech. 

"Will  you  be  leaving  Port  Agnew?"  he  sputtered 
presently.  "Or  can  I  arrange  to  let  you  have  a  small 
house  at  a  modest  rental " 

She  dissipated  this  verbal  camouflage  with  a  dis 
dainful  motion  of  her  upflung  hand. 

"Thank  you.  I  shall  leave  Port  Agnew — forever. 
The  loss  of  the  Brutus  makes  my  escape  possible,"  she 
added  ironically. 

"May  I  suggest  that  you  give  no  intimation  of  your 
intention  to  surrender  this  property?"  he  suggested 
eagerly.  "If  word  of  your  plan  to  abandon  got  abroad, 
it  might  create  an  opportunity  for  some  person  to  jump 
the  Sawdust  Pile  and  defy  us  to  dispossess  him." 

Mr.  Daney  sought,  by  this  subterfuge,  to  simulate  an 
interest  in  the  physical  possession  of  the  Sawdust  Pile 
which  he  was  far  from  feeling.  He  congratulated  him 
self,  however,  that,  all  in  all,  he  had  carried  off  his 
mission  wonderfully  well,  and  departed  with  a  promise 
to  bring  over  the  money  himself  that  very  afternoon. 
Indeed,  so  delighted  was  he  that  it  was  with  difficulty 
that  he  restrained  himself  from  unburdening  to  The 
Laird,  when  the  latter  dropped  in  at  the  mill  office  that 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  195 

afternoon,  the  news  that  before  the  week  should  be 
out  Nan  Brent  would  be  but  a  memory  in  Port  Agnew. 
Later,  he  wondered  how  far  from  Port  Agnew  she 
would  settle  for  a  new  start  in  life  and  whether  she 
would  leave  a  forwarding  address.  He  resolved  to 
ask  her,  and  he  did,  when  he  reappeared  at  the  Saw 
dust  Pile  that  afternoon  with  the  money  to  reimburse 
Nan  for  the  loss  of  the  Brutus. 

"I  haven't  decided  where  I  shall  go,  Mr.  Daney,"  Nan 
informed  him  truthfully,  "except  that  I  shall  betake 
myself  some  distance  from  the  Pacific  Coast — some 
place  where  the  opportunities  for  meeting  people  who 
know  me  are  nebulous,  to  say  the  least.  And  I  shall 
leave  no  forwarding  address.  When  I  leave  Port 
Agnew" — she  looked  Mr.  Daney  squarely  in  the  eyes 
as  she  said  this — "I  shall  see  to  it  that  no  man,  woman, 
or  child  in  Port  Agnew — not  even  Don  McKaye  or  The 
Laird,  who  have  been  most  kind  to  me — shall  know 
where  I  have  gone." 

"I'm  sorry  matters  have  so  shaped  themselves  in 
your  life,  poor  girl,  that  you're  feeling  bitter,"  Mr. 
Daney  replied,  with  genuine  sympathy,  notwithstanding 
the  fact  that  he  would  have  been  distressed  and  puzzled 
had  her  bitterness  been  less  genuine.  In  the  realization 
that  it  was  genuine,  he  had  a  wild  impulse  to  leap  in 
the  air  and  crack  his  ankles  together  for  very  joy. 
"Will  I  be  seeing  you  again,  Nan,  before  you  leave?" 

"Not  unless  the  spirit  moves  you,  Mr.  Daney,"  she 
answered  dryly.  She  had  no  dislike  for  Andrew  Daney, 
but,  since  he  was  the  husband  of  Mrs.  Daney  and  under 
that  person's  dominion,  she  distrusted  him. 

"Well  then,  I'll  bid  you-good-by  now,  Nan,"  he  an 
nounced.  "I  hope  your  lot  will  fall  in  pleasanter  places 


196  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

than  Port  Agnew.     Good-by,  my  dear  girl,  and  good 
luck  to  you — always." 

"Good-by,  Mr.  Daney,"  she  replied.     "Thank  you 
for  bringing  the  money  over." 


XXVI 

BY  an  apparent  inconsistency  in  the  natural  order 
of  human  affairs,  it  seems  that  women  are  called 
upon  far  oftener  than  men  to  make  the  hardest  sacri 
fices  ;  also,  the  call  finds  them  far  more  willing,  if  the 
sacrifice  is  demanded  of  them  by  love.  Until  Andrew 
Daney  had  appeared  at  the  Sawdust  Pile  with  the  sud 
denness  of  a  genie  (and  a  singularly  benevolent  genie  at 
that),  Nan  had  spent  many  days  wondering  what  fate 
the  future  held  in  store  for  her.  With  all  the  ardor  of 
a  prisoner,  she  had  yearned  to  leave  her  jail,  although 
she  realized  that  freedom  for  her  meant  economic  ruin. 
On  the  Sawdust  Pile,  she  could  exist  on  the  income  from 
the  charter  of  the  Brutus,  for  she  had  no  rent  to  pay 
and  no  fuel  to  buy ;  her  proximity  to  the  sea,  her  little 
garden  and  a  few  chickens  still  further  solved  her  eco 
nomic  problems.  Away  from  the  Sawdust  Pile,  however, 
life  meant  parting  with  her  baby.  She  would  have  to 
place  him  in  some  sort  of  public  institution  if  she  would 
be  free  to  earn  a  living  for  them  both,  and  she  was  not 
aware  that  she  possessed  any  adaptability  for  any  par 
ticular  labor  which  would  enable  her  to  earn  one  hun 
dred  dollars  a  month,  the  minimum  sum  upon  which  she 
could,  by  the  strictest  economy,  manage  to  exist  and 
support  her  child.  Too  well  she  realized  the  difficulty 
which  an  inexperienced  woman  has  in  securing  employ 
ment  in  an  office  or  store  at  a  wage  which,  by  the  wildest 
stretch  of  the  imagination,  may  be  termed  lucrative, 

197 


198  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

and,  lacking  funds  wherewith  to  tide  her  over  until 
she  should  acquire  experience,  or  even  until  she  should 
be  fortunate  enough  to  secure  any  kind  of  work,  inevi 
table  starvation  faced  her.  Her  sole  asset  was  her 
voice;  she  had  a  vague  hope  that  if  she  could  ever 
acquire  sufficient  money  to  go  to  New  York  and  buy 
herself  just  sufficient  clothing  to  look  well  dressed  and 
financially  independent,  she  might  induce  some  vaude 
ville  impresario  to  permit  her  to  spend  fifteen  minutes 
twice  or  four  times  daily,  singing  old-fashioned  songs 
to  the  proletariat  at  something  better  than  a  living 
wage.  She  had  an  idea  for  a  turn  to  be  entitled,  "Songs 
of  the  'Sixties." 

The  arrival  of  Andrew  Daney  with  twenty-five  hun 
dred  dollars  might  have  been  likened  to  an  eleventh- 
hour  reprieve  for  a  condemned  murderer.  Twenty-five 
hundred  dollars!  Why,  she  and  Don  could  live  two 
years  on  that !  She  was  free — at  last !  The  knowledge 
exalted  her — in  the  reaction  from  a  week  of  contem 
plating  a  drab,  barren  future,  she  gave  no  thought 
to  the  extreme  unlikelihood  of  anyone's  daring  to  steal 
a  forty-foot  motor-boat  on  a  coast  where  harbors  are 
so  few  and  far  between  as  they  are  on  the  Pacific.  Had 
old  Caleb  been  alive,  he  would  have  informed  her  that 
such  action  was  analogous  to  the  theft  of  a  hot  stove, 
and  that  no  business  man  possessed  of  a  grain  of  com 
mon  sense  would  have  hastened  to  reimburse  her  for 
the  loss  after  an  inconsequential  search  of  only  two 
days.  Had  she  been  more  worldly  wise,  she  would  have 
known  that  business  men  do  not  part  with  twenty-five 
hundred  dollars  that  readily — otherwise,  they  would  not 
be  business  men  and  would  not  be  possessed  of  twenty- 
five  hundred  dollars.  Nan  only  realized  that,  in  handing 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  199 

her  a  roll  of  bank-notes  with  a  rubber  band  round 
them,  Andrew  Daney  had  figuratively  given  her  the  key 
to  her  prison,  against  the  bars  of  which  her  soul  had 
beaten  for  three  long  years. 

Now,  it  is  doubtful  whether  any  woman  ever  loved  a 
man  without  feeling  fully  assured  that  she,  more  than 
any  other  person,  was  better  equipped  to  decide  exactly 
what  was  best  for  that  man.  Her  woman's  intuition 
told  Nan  that  Donald  McKaye  was  not  to  be  depended 
upon  to  conserve  the  honor  of  the  McKaye  family  by 
refraining  from  considering  an  alliance  with  her.  Also, 
knowing  full  well  the  passionate  yearnings  of  her  own 
heart  and  the  weakness  of  her  economic  position,  she 
shrank  from  submitting  herself  to  the  task  of  repelling 
lis  advances.  Where  he  was  concerned,  she  feared 
ler  own  weakness — she,  who  had  endured  the  brutality 
of  the  world,  could  not  endure  that  the  world's  brutality 
should  be  visited  upon  him  because  of  his  love  for  her. 
Strong  of  will,  self-reliant,  a  born  fighter,  and  as  stiff- 
lecked  as  his  father,  his  yearning  to  possess  her,  coupled 
with  his  instinct  for  fair  play,  might  and  probably 
would  lead  him  to  tell  the  world  to  go  hang,  that  he 
would  think  for  himself  and  take  his  happiness  where  he 
'ound  it.  By  all  means,  this  must  be  prevented.  Nan 
relt  that  she  could  not  permit  him  to  risk  making  a 
sorry  mess  of  a  life  of  promise. 

Consumed  with  such  thoughts  as  these,  it  was  obvious 
:hat  Nan  should  pursue  but  one  course — that  is,  leave 
Port  Agnew  unannounced  and  endeavor  to  hide  her 
self  where  Donald  McKaye  would  never  find  her.  In 
:his  high  resolve,  once  taken,  she  did  not  falter;  she 
even  declined  to  risk  rousing  the  suspicions  of  the  towns 
people  by  appearing  at  the  general  store  to  purchase 


200  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

badly  needed  articles  of  clothing  for  herself  and  her 
child.  She  resolved  to  leave  Port  Agnew  in  the  best 
clothes  she  had,  merely  pausing  a  few  days  in  her  flight 
— at  Vancouver,  perhaps — to  shop,  and  then  continuing 
on  to  New  York. 

On  the  morning  of  her  departure,  the  butcher's  boy, 
calling  for  an  order,  agreed,  for  fifty  cents,  to  transport 
her  one  small  trunk  on  his  cart  to  the  station.  The 
little  white  house  which  she  and  her  father  had  built 
with  so  much  pride  and  delight,  she  left  furnished  as 
it  was  and  in  perfect  order.  As  she  stood  at  the  front 
door  and  looked  back  for  the  last  time,  the  ticking  of 
the  clock  in  the  tiny  dining-and-living  room  answered 
her  mute,  "Good-by,  little  house;  good-by,"  and, 
though  her  heart  was  full  enough,  she  kept  back  the 
tears  until  she  saw  the  flag  flying  bravely  at  the  cupola. 

"Oh,  my  love,  my  love!"  she  sobbed.  "I  mustn't 
leave  it  flying  there,  flaunting  my  desertion  in  your 
dear  e3^es." 

Blinded  by  her  tears,  she  groped  her  way  back  to 
the  house,  hauled  down  the  flag,  furled  it,  and  laid  it 
away  in  a  bureau  drawer.  And  this  time,  when  she 
left  the  house,  she  did  not  look  back. 

At  the  station,  she  purchased  a  ticket  for  Seattle 
and  checked  her  trunk  at  the  baggage-room  counter. 
As  she  turned  from  the  counter  and  started  for  the 
waiting-room,  she  caught  the  interested  eyes  of  old 
Hector  McKaye  bent  upon  her.  He  lifted  his  hat  and 
walked  over  to  her. 

"I  happened  to  be  looking  down  at  the  Sawdust  Pile 
when  you  hauled  your  flag  down  this  morning,"  he 
explained,  in  a  low  voice.  "So  I  knew  you  were  going 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  201 

away.  That's  why  I'm  here."  To  this  extraordinary 
speech,  the  girl  merely  replied  with  an  inquiring  look. 
"I  wonder  if  you  will  permit  me  to  be  as  kind  to  you 
as  I  can,"  he  continued.  "I  know  it  sounds  a  bit  blunt 
and  vulgar  to  offer  you  money,  but  when  one  needs 
money " 

"I  have  sufficient  for  my  present  needs,"  she  replied. 
"Mr.  Daney  has  paid  me  for  the  loss  of  my  motor-boat, 
you  know.  You  are  very  kind ;  but  I  think  I  shall  have 
no  need  to  impose  further  on  your  generosity.  I  think 
the  twenty-five  hundred  dollars  will  last  me  nicely  until 
I  have  made  a  new  start  in  life." 

"Ah!"  The  Laird  breathed  softly.  "Twenty-five 
hundred  dollars.  Yes,  yes !  So  he  did ;  so  he  did !  And 
are  you  leaving  Port  Agnew  indefinitely,  Nan?" 

"Forever,"  she  replied.  "We  have  robbed  you  of  the 
ground  for  a  drying-yard  for  nearly  ten  years,  but 
this  morning  the  Sawdust  Pile  is  yours." 

"Bless  my  soul!"  The  Laird  ejaculated.  "Why,  we 
are  not  at  all  in  distress  for  more  drying-space." 

"Mr.  Daney  intimated  that  you  were.  He  asked  me 
how  much  I  would  take  to  abandon  my  squatter's  right, 
but  I  declined  to  charge  you  a  single  cent."  She  smiled 
up  at  him  a  ghost  of  her  sweet,  old-time  whimsical 
smile.  "It  was  the  first  opportunity  I  had  to  be  mag 
nanimous  to  the  McKaye  family,  and  I  hastened  to  take 
advantage  of  it.  I  merely  turned  the  key  in  the  lock 
and  departed." 

"Daney  has  been  a  trifle  too  zealous  for  the  Tyee 
interests,  I  fear,"  he  replied  gently.  "And  where  do 
you  plan  to  live?" 

"That,"  she  retorted,  still  smilingly,  "is  a  secret.  It 
may  interest  you,  Mr.  McKaye,  to  know  that  I  am  not 


202  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

even  leaving  a  forwarding  address  for  my  mail.  You 
see,  I  never  receive  any  letters  of  an  important  nature." 

He  was  silent  a  moment,  digesting  this.     Then, 

"And  does  my  son  share  a  confidence  which  I  am 
denied?" 

"He  does  not,  Mr.  McKaye.  This  is  my  second 
opportunity  to  do  the  decent  thing  toward  the  McKaye 
family — so  I  am  doing  it.  I  plan  to  make  rather  a 
thorough  job  of  it,  too.  You — you'll  be  very  kind  and 
patient  with  him,  will  you  not?  He's  going  to  fee] 
rather  badly,  you  know,  but,  then,  I  never  encouraged 
him.  It's  all  his  fault,  I  think — I  tried  to  play  fair — 
and  it  was  so  hard."  Her  voice  sunk  to  a  mere  whisper. 
"I've  always  loved  Donald,  Mr.  McKaye.  Most  people 
do ;  so  I  have  not  regarded  it  as  sinful  on  my  part." 

"You  are  abandoning  him  of  your  own  free  will " 

"Certainly.  I  have  to.  Surely  you  must  realize 
that?" 

"Yes,  I  do.  I  have  felt  that  he  would  never  abandon 
you."  He  opened  and  closed  his  big  hands  nervously, 
and  was  plainly  a  trifle  distrait.  "So — so  this  is  your 
idea  of  playing  the  game,  is  it?"  he  demanded  presently. 
She  nodded.  "Well,"  he  replied  helplessly,  "I  would 
to  God  I  dared  be  as  good  a  sport  as  you  are,  Nan 
Brent !  Hear  me,  now,  lass.  Think  of  the  thing  in  life 
you  want  to  do  and  the  place  where  you  want  to  do 
it " 

She  interrupted  him. 

"No,  no,  Mr.  McKaye;  there  can  be  no  talk  of  money 
between  us.  I  cannot  and  will  not  take  your  son — for 
his  sake,  and  for  my  own  sake  I  cannot  and  will  not 
accept  of  your  kindness.  Somehow,  some  place,  I'm 
going  to  paddle  my  own  canoe." 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  205 

"Guid  lass;  guid  lass,"  he  whispered  huskily.  "Re 
member,  then,  if  your  canoe  upsets  and  spills  you,  a 
wire  to  me  will  right  you,  and  no  questions  asked. 
Good-by,  my  dear,  and  good  luck  to  you !" 

He  pressed  her  hand,  lifted  his  hat,  and  walked 
briskly  away  in  the  direction  of  The  Tyee  Lumber 
Company's  office,  quite  oblivious  of  the  fact  that  his 
interview  with  Nan  Brent  had  been  observed  by  a  person 
to  whom  the  gods  had  given  at  birth  a  more  than  aver 
age  propensity  of  intrigue,  romance,  and  general  cus- 
sedness — Mr.  Daniel  J.  O'Leary,  of  whom  more  anon. 

From  the  station,  Hector  McKaye  hurried  over  to 
the  mill  office  and  entered  Andrew  Daney's  room. 

"Andrew,"  he  began,  "you've  been  doing  things. 
What  became  of  old  Caleb  Brent's  motor-boat?" 

"I  opened  the  seacock,  cast  it  off,  and  let  it  drift 
out  into  the  bight  on  the  ebb-tide  one  night  recently." 

"Why?" 

"In  order  that  I  might  have  a  logical  and  reasonable 
excuse  to  furnish  Nan  Brent  with  sufficient  funds  to 
leave  this  town  and  make  a  new  start  elsewhere.  I  have 
charged  the  twenty-five  hundred  to  your  personal  ac 
count  on  the  company  books." 

"You  also  indulged  in  some  extraordinary  statements 
regarding  our  pressing  need  for  the  Sawdust  Pile  as 
a  drying-yard." 

"We  can  use  it,  sir,"  Daney  replied.  "I  felt  justified 
in  indicating  to  the  girl  that  her  room  was  desired 
to  her  company.  Your  son,"  he  added  deliberately, 
"was  treading  on  soft  ground,  and  I  took  the  license  of 
an  old  friend  and,  I  hope,  a  faithful  servant,  to  rid  him 
of  temptation." 

"I  shall  never  be  done  with  feeling  grateful  to  you, 


204  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

Andrew.  The  girl  is  leaving  on  the  train  that's  just 
pulling  out,  and — the  incident  is  closed.  My  son  is 
young.  He  will  get  over  it.  Thank  you,  Andrew,  dear 
friend,  until  you're  better  paid — as  you  will  be  some 
day  soon." 

"I'll  have  need  of  your  friendship  if  Donald  ever  dis 
covers  my  part  in  this  deal.  He'll  fire  me  out  o'  hand." 

"If  he  does,  I'll  hire  you  back." 

"Hell  will  pop  when  he  finds  the  bird  has  flown,  sir." 

"Let  it  pop !  That  kind  of  popping  is  music  in  my 
ears.  Hark,  Andrew  lad !  There's  the  train  whistling 
for  Darrow's  Crossing.  From  there  on  the  trail  is  lost 
— lost— lost,  I  tell  you !  O  Lord,  God  of  Hosts,  I  thank 
Thee  for  Thy  great  mercy  !" 

And,  quite  suddenly,  old  Hector  sat  down  and  began 
to  weep. 


XXVII 

NAN  BRENT'S  departure  from  the  Sawdust  Pile 
was  known  to  so  few  in  Port  Agnew  that  it  was 
fully  ten  days  before  the  news  became  general;  even 
then  it  excited  no  more  than  momentary  comment,  and 
a  week  later  when  Donald  McKaye  returned  to  town, 
somewhat  sooner  than  he  had  anticipated,  Port  Agnew 
had  almost  forgotten  that  Nan  Brent  had  ever  lived 
and  loved  and  sinned  in  its  virtuous  midst.  Even  the 
small  gossip  about  her  and  the  young  laird  had  sub 
sided,  condemned  by  all,  including  the  most  thoughtless, 
as  a  gross  injustice  to  their  favorite  son,  and  conse 
quently  dismissed  as  the  unworthy  tattling  of  unworthy, 
suspicious  old  women.  Life  in  the  busy  little  sawmill 
town  had  again  sagged  into  the  doldrums. 

For  several  days,  a  feeling  of  lassitude  had  been 
stealing  over  Donald.  At  first  he  thought  it  was  mental 
depression,  but  when,  later,  he  developed  nausea,  lack 
of  appetite,  and  pains  in  his  head,  back,  and  extremities, 
it  occurred  to  him  that  he  wasn't  feeling  well  physically 
and  that  The  Dreamerie  was  to  be  preferred  to  his 
rough  pine  shanty  in  the  woods,  even  though  in  the 
latter  he  had  sanctuary  from  the  female  members  of 
his  family. 

He  came  in  unexpectedly  on  the  last  log-train  on 
Saturday  night ;  tired,  with  throbbing  head  and  trem 
bling  legs,  he  crawled  off  the  caboose  at  the  log  dump 
and  made  his  way  weakly  up  to  the  mill  office.  It  was 

205 


206  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

deserted  when  he  got  there  at  half-past  six,  but  in  his 
mail-box  he  found  something  which  he  had  promised 
himself  would  be  there,  despite  certain  well-remembered 
assurances  to  the  contrary.  It  was  a  letter  from  Nan. 
He  tore  the  envelop  eagerly  and  read : 

Donald  dear,  I  love  you.  That  is  why  I  am  leaving 
you.  We  shall  not  meet  again,  I  think.  If  we  should,  it 
will  doubtless  be  years  hence,  and  by  that  time  we  shall 
both  have  resigned  ourselves  to  this  present  very  neces 
sary  sacrifice.  Good-by,  poor  dear. 

Always  your  sweetheart, 

NAN. 

He  read  and  reread  the  letter  several  times.  It 
was  undated.  Presently,  with  an  effort,  he  recovered 
the  envelop  from  the  waste-basket  and  examined  the 
postmark.  The  letter  had  been  mailed  from  Seattle, 
but  the  post-date  was  blurred. 

With  the  letter  clutched  in  his  hand,  he  bent  forward 
and  pillowed  his  hot  face  in  his  arms,  outspread  upon 
his  father's  old  desk.  He  wanted  to  weep — to  sob  aloud 
in  a  childish  effort  to  unburden  his  heart,  scourged 
now  with  the  first  real  sorrow  of  his  existence.  His 
throat  contracted ;  something  in  his  breast  appeared  to 
have  congealed,  yet  for  upward  of  an  hour  he  neither 
moved  nor  gave  forth  a  sound.  At  last,  under  the  inspi 
ration  of  a  great  hope  that  came  apparently  without 
any  mental  effort  or  any  desire  for  hope,  so  thoroughly 
crushed  was  he,  the  black,  touseled  head  came  slowly 
up.  His  face,  usually  ruddy  beneath  the  dark,  sun 
tanned  skin  but  now  white  and  haggard,  showed  a 
fleeting  little  smile,  as  if  he  grinned  at  his  own  weakness 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  207 

and  lack  of  faith;  he  rose  unsteadily  and  clumped  out 
of  the  office-building. 

Gone!  Nan  gone — like  that!  No,  no!  He  would 
not  believe  it.  She  might  have  intended  to  go — she 
might  have  wanted  to  go — she  might  even  have  started 
to  go — but  she  had  turned  back!  She  loved  him;  she 
was  his.  During  those  long  days  and  nights  up  in  the 
woods,  he  had  fought  the  issue  with  himself  and  made 
up  his  mind  that  Nan  Brent  was  the  one  woman  in  the 
world  for  him,  that  there  could  never,  by  God's  grace, 
be  any  other,  and  that  he  would  have  her,  come  what 
might  and  be  the  price  what  it  would.  Rather  than  the 
fortune  for  which  his  father  had  toiled  and  sacrificed, 
Donald  preferred  Nan's  love ;  rather  than  a  life  .of  ease 
and  freedom  from  worry,  he  looked  forward  with  a 
fierce  joy  to  laboring  with  his  hands  for  a  pittance,  pro 
vided  he  might  have  the  privilege  of  sharing  it  with  her. 
And  The  Dreamerie,  the  house  his  father  had  built 
with  such  great,  passionate  human  hopes  and  tender 
yearnings,  the  young  laird  of  Port  Agnew  could  aban 
don  without  a  pang  for  that  little  white  house  on  the 
Sawdust  Pile.  Round  steak  and  potatoes,  fried  by 
the  woman  destined  to  him  for  his  perfect  mate,  would 
taste  better  to  him  than  the  choicest  viands  served  by 
light  stepping  servitors  in  his  father's  house. 

What,  after  all,  was  there  worth  while  in  the  world 
for  him  if  he  was  to  be  robbed  of  his  youth  and  his 
love?  For  him,  the  bare  husks  of  life  held  110  allure 
ment  ;  he  was  one  of  that  virile,  human  type  that  rejects 
the  doctrine  of  sacrifice,  denial,  and  self-repression  in 
this  life  for  the  greater  glory  of  God  and  man's  promise 
of  a  reward  in  another  life,  of  which  we  wot  but  little 
and  that  little  not  scientifically  authenticated.  He 


208  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

wanted  the  great,  all-compelling,  omnipotent  Present, 
with  its  gifts  that  he  could  clutch  in  his  fierce  hands  or 
draw  to  his  hungry  heart.  To  hell  with  the  future.  He 
reflected  that  misers  permit  their  thoughts  to  dwell 
upon  it  and  die  rich  and  despised,  leaving  to  the  apostles 
of  the  Present  the  enjoyment  of  the  fruits  of  a  foolish 
sacrifice. 

"She  came  back.  I  know  she  did,"  he  mumbled,  as  he 
groped  his  way  through  the  dark  of  the  drying-yard. 
"I'm  sick.  I  must  see  her  and  tell  her  to  wait  until  I'm 
well.  The  damned  dirty  world  can  do  what  it  jolly 
well  pleases  to  me,  but  I'll  protect  her  from  it.  I  will 
—by  God!" 

He  emerged  into  the  open  fields  beyond  which  lay 
the  Sawdust  Pile,  snuggled  down  on  the  beach.  The 
Brent  cottage  was  visible  in  the  dim  starlight,  and  he 
observed  that  there  was  no  light  in  the  window;  never 
theless,  his  high  faith  did  not  falter.  He  pressed  on, 
although  each  step  was  the  product  of  an  effort,  mental 
and  physical.  His  legs  were  heavy  and  dragged,  as  if 
he  wore  upon,  his  logger's  boots  the  thick,  leaden  soles 
of  a  deep-sea  diver. 

At  the  gate,  he  leaned  and  rested  for  a  few  minutes, 
then  entered  the  deserted  yard  and  rapped  at  the  front 
door;  but  his  summons  bringing  no  response,  he  stag 
gered  round  to  the  back  door  and  repeated  it.  He 
waited  half  a  minute  and  then  banged  furiously  with 
his  fist  upon  the  door-panel.  Still  receiving  no  response, 
he  seized  the  knob  and  shook  the  door  until  the  little 
house  appeared  to  rattle  from  cellar  to  cupola. 

"Nan!  Nan!  Where  are  you?"  he  called.  "It  is  I— 
Donald.  Answer  me,  Nan.  I  know  you  haven't  gone 
away.  You  wouldn't !  Please  answer  me,  Nan !" 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  209 

But  the  only  sound  he  heard  was  the  labored  pumping 
of  his  own  heart  and  the  swish  of  the  wavelets  against 
the  timbered  buttress  of  the  Sawdust  Pile.  The  con 
viction  slowly  came  to  his  torpid  brain  that  he  was 
seeking  admittance  to  a  deserted  house,  and  he  leaned 
against  the  door  and  fought  for  control  of  himself. 
Presently,  like  a  stricken  animal,  he  went  slowly  and 
uncertainly  away  in  the  direction  whence  he  had  come. 

Andrew  Daney  had  put  out  the  cat  and  wound  the 
clock  and  was  about  to  ascend  to  his  chamber  (now, 
alas,  reoccupied  by,  Mrs.  Daney,  upon  whom  the  news 
of  Nan's  departure  had  descended  like  a  gentle  rainfall 
over  a  hitherto  arid  district)  when  he  heard  slow  foot 
steps  on  his  front  veranda.  Upon  going  to  the  door 
and  peering  out,  he  was  amazed  to  see  Donald  McKaye 
standing  just  outside. 

"Well,  bless  my  soul!"  Daney  declared.  "So  it's  you 
Donald.  Come  in,  lad ;  come  in." 

Donald  shook  his  head. 

"No,  I've  only  come  to  stay  a  minute,  Mr.  Daney. 
Thank  you,  sir.  I — I  notice  you're  running  a  light 
track  from  the  drying-yard  down  to  the  Sawdust  Pile. 
Stumbled  over  it  in  the  dark  a  few  minutes  ago,  and 
I — "  He  essayed  a  ghastly  smile,  for  he  desired  to 
remove  the  sting  from  the  gentle  rebuke  he  purposed 
giving  the  general  manger — "couldn't  seem  to  remember 
having  ordered  that  track — or — suggesting  that  it  be 
laid." 

"Quite  so,  Donald;  quite  so,"  Daney  answered.  "I 
did  it  on  my  own  initiative.  Nan  Brent  has  abandoned 
the  Sawdust  Pile — moved  away  from  Port  Agnew,  you 
know;  so  I  decided  to  extend  the  drying-yard,  and 


210  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

squat   on   the   Sawdust  Pile  before  some  undesirable 
took  possession." 

"Hm-m-m !  I  see.  Well,  suppose  Nan  takes  a  notion 
to  return  to  Port  Agnew,  Mr.  Daney.  She'll  find  our 
drying-yard  something  of  a  nuisance,  will  she  not?" 

"Oh,  but  she's  not  coming  back,"  Daney  assured  him, 
with  all  the  confidence  of  one  free  from  the  slightest 
doubt  on  the  subject. 

"She  might.  I  could  see  rather  dimly  into  the  kitchen 
and  it  appears  Miss  Brent  left  her  little  home  fur 
nished." 

"Yes,  she  did,  Donald.  I  believe  she  just  turned  the 
key  in  the  lock  and  went  away." 

"Know  where  she  went,  Mr.  Daney?" 

"No.  She  didn't  even  leave  a  forwarding  address  for 
her  mail." 

The  young  laird  of  Tyee  lurched  up  to  Mr.  Daney 
and  laid  a  heavy  hand  on  the  older  man's  shoulder. 

"How  do  you  know  that?"  he  demanded,  and  there 
was  a  growl  in  his  voice.  "Has  Mrs.  Daney  been  asking 
the  postmaster?" 

Mr.  Daney  saw  that,  for  some  inexplicable  reason,  he 
was  in  for  a  bad  five  minutes  or  more.  His  youthful 
superior's  face  was  white  and  beaded  with  perspiration. 
Daney  had  a  suspicion  that  Donald  had  had  a  drink 
or  two. 

"There  has  been  no  gossip,  Donald,"  he  answered 
crisply.  "Get  that  notion  out  of  your  head.  I  would 
protect  you  from  gossip,  for  I  think  I  know  my  duty 
to  the  McKayes.  I  learned  that  lesson  a  long  time  ago," 
he  added,  with  spirit. 

.     "You  haven't  answered  my  question,  Mr.  Daney," 
Donald  persisted. 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

"I  shall.  I  know,  because  she  told  me  herself."  Mr. 
Daney  had  not  intended  that  Donald  should  ever  dis 
cover  that  he  had  had  an  interview  with  Nan  Brent,  but 
his  veracity  had,  for  the  moment,  appeared  to  him  to 
be  questioned  by  his  superior,  and  he  was  too  truthful, 
too  thoroughly  honest  to  attempt  now  to  protect  his 
reputation  for  truth-telling  by  uttering  a  small  fib, 
albeit  he  squirmed  inwardly  at  the  terrible  necessity 
(or  such  integrity. 

"Ah !  Then  Nan  called  upon  you  again  ?" 

Mr.  Daney  sighed. 

"No,  I  called  upon  her." 

"With  reference  to  what?" 

"To  settle  with  her  for  the  loss  of  the  Brutus." 

"When  did  you  lose  the  Brutus." 

Mr.  Daney  pulled  at  his  ear,  gazed  at  the  porch  light, 
rubbed  his  Adam's  apple,  and  gave  the  exact  date. 

"What  happened  to  the  Brutus?" 

"She  just  disappeared,  Donald.  She  was  tied  up 
alongside  the  barge " 

The  heavy  hand  on  Mr.  Daney's  shoulder  tightened  a 
little.  Donald  was  merely  holding  fast  to  the  general 
manager  in  order  to  stay  on  his  feet,  but  Mr.  Daney 
credited  him  with  being  the  victim  of  rising  anger. 

"When  did  Nan  leave  Port  Agnew,  Mr.  Daney?" 

"Let  me  see,  Donald."  Mr.  Daney  tugged  at  his 
beard.  "Why,  she  left  two  weeks  ago  yesterday.  Yes ; 
she  left  on  the  nineteenth." 

"Wlien  did  you  settle  with  her  for  the  loss  of  the 
Brutus?" 

"On  the  sixteenth,"  Daney  answered  glibly. 

"How  much?" 

"Twenty-five  hundred  dollars.    It  was  more  than  the 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

Brutus  was  worth,  but  I  disliked  to  appear  niggardly 
in  the  matter,  Donald.  I  knew  you  and  your  father 
would  approve  whatever  sum  I  settled  for — and  the 
loss  of  the  little  boat  provided  a  nice  opportunity  for 
generosity  without  hurting  the  girl's  pride.'* 

"Yes — thank  you,  Mr.  Daney.  That  was  kind  and 
thoughtful  of  you."  Donald  spoke  the  words  slowly, 
as  if  he  searched  his  brain  carefully  for  each  word  and 
then  had  to  coax  his  tongue  into  speaking  it.  "You 
settled,  then,  two  days  after  the  boat  disappeared. 
Fast  work.  Nobody  up  here  would  steal  the  boat. 
Too  much  distance  between  ports — run  short  of  gaso 
line,  you  know,  on  her  limited  tank  capacity — and  if 
anybody  had  purchased  cased  gasoline  around  here 
to  load  on  deck,  you'd  know  of  it.  Hard  to  conceal  or 
disguise  a  forty-foot  boat,  too."  His  fingers  closed  like 
steel  nippers  over  Mr.  Daney's  shoulder.  "Where  did 
you  hide  the  boat,  Mr.  Daney?  Answer  me.  I'll  not 
be  trifled  with." 

"I  scuttled  her — if  you  must  have  the  truth." 

"I  knew  you  wouldn't  lie  to  me.  On  whose  orders, 
Mr.  Daney?  My  father's?" 

"No,  sir;  it  was  my  own  idea."  Daney's  face  was 
white  with  mental  and  physical  distress  and  red  with 
confusion,  by  turns.  His  shoulder  was  numb. 

"JVVhy?" 

"I  figured  that  if  the  girl  had  some  money  to  make 
a  new  start  elsewhere,  she'd  leave  Port  Agnew,  which 
would  be  best  for  all  concerned." 

"Why,  Andrew  Daney,  you  old  hero !  Cost  you  some 
thing  to  confess  that,  didn't  it?  Well — I  guessed  you 
or  my  father  had  induced  her  to  go,  so  I  concluded 
to  start  the  investigation  with  you."  He  passed  his 


KINDRED  OP  THE  DUST 

hand  over  his  white  dripping  brow  before  resuming 
what  he  had  to  say.  "The  Tyee  Lumber  Company  isn't 
equipped  to  carry  on  its  pay-roll  Mr.  Donald  McKaye 
and  the  man  who  interferes  in  his  personal  affair,  even 
though  actuated  by  a  kindly  interest.  You  rip  up  that 
track  you're  laying  and  leave  Nan's  home  alone.  Then 
you  clean  up  your  desk  and  hand  me  your  resignation. 
I'm  sick — and  your  damned  interference  hurts.  Sorry ; 
but  you  must  go.  Understand?  Nan's  coming  back — 
understand?  Coming  back — devilish  hot  night — for 
this  time  of  year,  isn't  it?  Man,  I'm  burning  up." 

It  came  to  Mr.  Daney  that  the  young  laird  was  acting 
in  a  most  peculiar  manner.  Also,  he  was  talking  that 
way.  Consequently,  and  what  with  the  distress  of  being 
dismissed  from  the  McKaye  service  in  such  cavalier 
fashion,  the  general  manager  decided  to  twist  out  from 
under  that  terrible  grasp  on  his  shoulder. 

Instantly,  Donald  released  from  this  support,  swayed 
and  clutched  gropingly  for  Mr.  Daney's  person. 

"Dizzy,"  he  panted.  "Head's  on  strike.  Mr.  Daney, 
where  the  devil  are  you?  Don't  run  away  from  me. 
You  damned  old  muddler,  if  I  get  my  hands  on  you  I'll 
pick  you  apart — yes,  I  will — to  see — what  makes  you 
go.  You  did  it.  Yes,  you  did — even  if  you're  too 
stupidly  honest — to  lie  about  it.  Glad  of  that,  though, 
Mr.  Daney.  Hate  liars  and  interfering  duffers.  Ah — 
the  cold-blooded  calculation  of  it — took  advantage  of 
her  poverty.  She's  gone — nobody  knows —  May  God 
damn  your  soul  to  the  deepest  hell —  Where  are  you? 
I'll  kill  you — no,  no;  forgive  me,  sir —  Yes,  you've 
been  faithful,  and  you're  an  old  employe —  I  wish  you 
a  very  pleasant  good-evening,  sir.'* 

He   stepped   gingerly   down   the  three  wide   stairs, 


214  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

pitched  forward,  and  measured  his  length  in  a  bed  of 
pansies.  Mr.  Daney  came  down,  struck  a  match,  and 
looked  at  his  white  face.  Donald  was  apparently  un 
conscious;  so  Mr.  Daney  knelt,  placed  his  inquisitive- 
nose  close  to  the  partly  open  lips,  and  sniffed.  Then  he 
swore  his  chiefest  oath. 

"Hell's  bells  and  panther-tracks!  He  isn't  drunk. 
He's  sick." 

Fifteen  minutes  later,  the  young  Laird  of  Port  Agnew 
reposed  in  the  best  room  of  his  own  hospital,  and  An 
drew  Daney  was  risking  his  life  motoring  at  top  speed 
up  the  cliff  road  to  The  Dreamerie  with  bad  news  for 
old  Hector.  Mrs.  McKaye  and  the  girls  bad  retired 
but  The  Laird  was  reading  in  the  living-room  whea 
Daney  entered  unannounced. 

Old  Hector  looked  up  at  his  general  manager  from 
under  his  white,  shaggy  brow. 

"Ye,  Andrew,"  he  saluted  the  latter  gently,  "I  see  by 
your  face  it's  not  welcome  news  you  bring.  Out  with 
it,  man." 

So  Andrew  came  "out  with  it,"  omitting  no  detail, 
and  at  the  conclusion  of  his  recital,  the  old  man  wagged 
his  head  to  emphasize  his  comprehension. 

"My  son  is  not  a  dull  man  by  any  means,"  he  said 
presently.  "He  knows  what  he  knows — a  man  sure  of 
himself  always — and  oh,  Andrew  man,  because  of  the 
brain  of  him  and  the  sweet  soul  of  him,  it  breaks  my 
heart  to  give  pain  to  him.  And  what  does  the  doctor 
say?" 

"From  a  cursory  examination  he  suspects  typhoid 
fever." 

"Ah,  that's  bad,  bad,  Andrew." 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  215 

"The  boy  has  the  strength  of  a  Hercules,  sir.  He'll 
beat  through,  never  fear." 

"Well,  he'll  not  die  to-night,  at  any  rate,"  old  Hector 
answered,  "and  I  can  do  no  good  puttering  round  the 
hospital  to-night.  Neither  would  I  alarm  his  mother 
and  the  girls.  Send  for  the  best  medical  brains  in 
the  country,  Andrew,  and  don't  quibble  at  the  cost. 
Pay  them  what  they  ask.  'Twill  be  cheap  enough  if 
they  save  him.  Good-night,  Andrew,  and  thank  you 
kindly."  He  stood  up  and  laid  his  hand  affectionately 
upon  the  shoulder  of  his  faithful  servant  and  walked 
with  him  thus  to  the  door.  "My  good  Andrew,"  he 
murmured,  and  propelled  the  general  manager  gently 
outside,  "there's  no  need  to  worry  over  the  dismissal. 
When  the  lad's  well,  he'll  rescind  his  order,  so,  in  the 
meantime,  do  not  leave  us." 

"But — if  he  shouldn't  rescind  it?"  Daney  pleaded 
anxiously.  Although  he  was  comfortably  fixed  with 
this  world's  goods  and  had  long  since  ceased  to  work 
for  monetary  reward,  the  Tyee  Lumber  Company  was, 
nevertheless,  part  of  his  life,  and  to  be  dismissed  from 
its  service  was  akin  to  having  some  very  necessary 
part  of  him  amputated. 

"Tush,  man ;  tush !  Don't  be  building  a  mare's  nest," 
old  Hector  answered  and  closed  the  door  upon  him.  For 
The  Laird  was  losing  control  of  himself  and  he  could 
not  bear  that  any  human  eye  should  gaze  upon  his 
weakness. 


XXVIII 

THE  morning  following  Donald's  admittance  to  the 
hospital,  the  company  doctor  confirmed  his  orig 
inal  diagnosis  that  the  patient  was  suffering  from  an} 
attack  of  typhoid  fever.  The  disease  had  evidently  been 
two  weeks  incubating,  for  the  woods  boss  reported  that 
his  superior  had  complained  of  being  "under  the 
weather"  for  ten  days  before  yielding  to  the  former's 
repeated  advice  to  go  down  to  Port  Agnew  and  have 
the  doctor  look  him  over.  As  a  result  of  Donald's  stub 
born  refusal  to  acknowledge  his  illness,  the  disease  had 
reached  a  fair  stage  of  development  by  the  time  hei 
received  medical  attention. 

He  was  not  delirious  when  The  Laird  and  Mrs.  Mc- 
Kaye  reached  the  hospital  that  morning,  however,  they 
were  permitted  to  see  him  for  but  a  few  minutes  only. 

"Has  he  a  fighting  chance?"  old  Hector  demanded 
bluntly  of  the  doctor.  It  seemed  to  him  that  his  son's 
face  already  wore  the  look  of  one  doomed  to  dissolution 
at  an  early  date. 

"Yes,  he  has,  Mr.  McKaye,"  the  dodtor  replied 
gravely;  "provided  he'll  fight.  You  will  understand 
that  in  typhoid  fever  the  mortality  rate  is  rather  high 
— as  high  as  thirty  per  cent.  However,  in  the  case  of 
Donald,  who  is  a  husky  athlete,  I  should  place  the 
odds  at  about  ten  to  one  that  he'll  survive  an  attack 
of  even  more  than  moderate  severity.  That  is,"  he 
added,  "under  the  most  favorable  conditions." 

216 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  217 

"Well,  what's  wrong  with  the  conditions  in  this 
case?"  The  Laird  demanded  crisply.  "You  can  have 
anything  you  want — if  you're  shy  on  material  to  work 
with,  and  I've  sent  for  the  best  physician  in  the  state 
to  come  here  and  consult  with  you." 

"The  hospital  conditions  are  perfect,  Mr.  McKaye. 
What  I  mean  is  this :  It  is  a  well  recognized  principle 
of  medical  practice  that  a  patient  combating  a  disease 
of  -extreme  severity  and  high  mortality  is  sustained  quite 
as  much  by  his  courage  and  a  passionate  desire  to  get 
well — in  a  word,  by  his  morale — as  he  is  by  his  capacity 
for  physical  resistance.  Your  son  is,  I  think,  slightly 
depressed  mentally.  That  is  the  sole  reason  I  see  to 
warrant  apprehension." 

"Oh— so  that's  all,  eh?"  The  Laird  was  relieved. 
"'Then  don't  worry  about  him.  He'll  put  up  a  battle — 
never  fear.  Why,  he  never  quit  in  all  his  life.  How 
ever,  in  case  he  might  need  a  bit  of  encouragement  from 
his  old  daddy  from  time  to  time,  you'll  have  a  room 
made  ready  for  me.  I'll  stay  here  till  he's  out  of  dan 
ger." 

That  was  a  terrible  week  on  old  Hector.  The  nurse, 
discovering  that  his  presence  appeared  to  excite  her 
patient,  forbade  him  the  room;  so  he  spent  his  da}^s 
and  part  of  his  nights  prowling  up  and  down  the  cor 
ridor,  with  occasional  visits  to  the  mill  office  and  The 
Dreamerie,  there  to  draw  such  comfort  from  Daney  and 
his  family  as  he  might.  While  his  temperature  re 
mained  below  a  hundred  and  four,  Donald  would  lie  in  a 
semi-comatose  condition,  but  the  instant  the  thermom 
eter  crept  beyond  that  point  he  would  commence  to  mut 
ter  incoherently.  Suddenly,  he  would  announce,  so 


218  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

loudly  The  Laird  could  hear  every  word,  that  he  con 
templated  the  complete  and  immediate  destruction  of 
Andrew  Daney  and  would  demand  that  the  culprit  be 
brought  before  him.  Sometimes  he  assumed  that  Daney 
was  present,  and  the  not  unusual  phenomenon  atten 
dant  upon  delirium  occurred.  When  in  good  health 
Donald  never  swore ;  neither  would  he  tolerate  rough 
language  in  his  presence  from  an  employe;  neverthe 
less,  in  his  delirium  he  managed,  at  least  once  daily,  to 
heap  upon  the  unfortunate  Daney  a  generous  helping 
of  invective  of  a  quality  that  would  have  made  a  mule- 
skinner  blush.  Sometimes  Mr.  Daney  was  unfortunate 
enough  to  drop  in  at  the  hospital  in  time  to  hear  this 
stream  of  anathema  sounding  through  the  corridor; 
upon  such  occasions  he  would  go  into  The  Laird's  room 
and  he  and  old  Hector  would  eye  each  other  grimly  but 
say  never  a  word. 

Having  demolished  Mr.  Daney  with  a  verbal  broad 
side,  Donald  would  appear  to  consider  his  enemy  dead 
and  direct  his  remarks  to  Nan  Brent.  He  would  re 
proach  her  tenderly  for  leaving  Port  Agnew  without 
informing  him  of  her  intention ;  he  assured  her  he  loved 
her,  and  that  unless  she  returned  life  would  not  be 
worth  living.  Sometimes  he  would  call  upon  old  de^d 
Caleb  to  reason  with  her  in  his  behalf.  About 
that  time  he  would  be  emerging  from  a  Brand  bath 
and,  with  the  decline  of  his  temperature,  his  mutterings 
and  complaints  gradually  grew  incoherent  again  and 
he  would  sleep. 

Thus  two  weeks  passed.  Donald  showed  no  sign  of 
the  improvement  which  should  ordinarily  be  looked  for 
in  the  third  week,  and  it  was  apparent  to  the  doctors 
.and  nurses  who  attended  him  that  the  young  Laird  was 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  219 

not  making  a  fight  to  get  well — that  his  tremendous 
physical  resistance  was  gradually  being  undermined. 
His  day-nurse  it  was  who  had  the  courage,  womanlike, 
to  bring  the  matter  to  an  issue. 

"He's  madly  in  love  with  that  Nan  girl  he's  always 
raving  about,"  she  declared.  "From  all  I  can  gather 
from  his  disconnected  sentences,  she  has  left  Port  Agnew 
forever,  and  he  doesn't  know  where  she  is.  Now,  I've 
seen  men — little,  weak  men — recover  from  a  worse  at 
tack  of  typhoid  than  this  big  fellow  has,  and  he  ought 
to  be  on  the  up-grade  now,  if  ever — yet  he's  headed 
down-hill.  About  next  week  he's  going  to  start  to  coast, 
unless  Nan  Brent  shows  up  to  take  him  by  the  hand 
and  lead  him  back  up-hill.  I  believe  she  could  do  it — 
if  she  would." 

"I  believe  she  could,  also,"  the  doctor  agreed.  "Per 
haps  you've  noticed  that,  although  his  family  have  lis 
tened  to  him  rave  about  her,  they  have  never  given  the 
slightest  indication  that  they  know  what  he  is  raving 
about.  The  girl's  tabu,  apparently." 

"The  Laird  appears  to  be  a  human  being.  Have  you 
spoken  to  him  about  this — Nan  girl?" 

"I  tried  to — once.  He  looked  at  me — and  I  didn't  try 
any  more.  The  fact  is,"  the-doctor  added,  lowering  his 
voice,  "I  have  a  notion  that  old  Hector,  through  Daney, 
gave  the  girl  money  to  leave  the  country." 

"If  he  knew  what  an  important  personage  she  is  at 
this  minute,  he'd  give  her  more  money  to  come  back — 
if  only  just  long  enough  to  save  his  son.  Have  you 
spoken  to  Mr.  Daney?" 

"No ;  but  I  think  I  had  better.  He»'has  a  great  deal 
of  influence  with  The  Laird,  and  since  I  have  no  doubt 
they  were  in  this  conspiracy  together,  Daney  may  ven- 


220  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

ture  to  discuss  with  the  old  man  the  advisability  of 
bringing  the  girl  back  to  Port  Agnew." 

"If  she  doesn't  appear  on  the  scene  within  ten 
days " 

"I  agree  with  you.    Guess  I'll  look  up  Mr.  Daney." 

He  did.  Daney  was  at  his  desk  in  the  mill  office 
when  the  doctor  entered  and,  without  the  least  circum 
locution,  apprised  him  of  the  desperate  state  to  which 
Donald  was  reduced. 

"I  tell  you,  Mr.  Daney,"  he  declared,  and  pounded 
Daney's  desk  to  emphasize  his  statement,  "everything 
that  medical  science  can  do  for  that  boy  has  been 
done,  but  he's  slipping  out  from  under  us.  Our  last 
hope  lies  in  Nan  Brent.  If  she  can  be  induced  to  come 
to  his  bedside,  hold  his  hand,  and  call  him  pet  names 
when  he's  rational,  he'll  buck  up  and  win  out.  There 
are  no  dangerous  physical  complications  to  combat 
now.  They  are  entirely  mental." 

While  the  physician. was  speaking,  Andrew  Daney's 
face  had  gradually  been  taking  on  the  general  color- 
tones  of  a  ripe  old  Edam  cheese.  His  chin  slowly  sagged 
on  his  breast;  his  lips  parted  in  horror  and  amaze 
ment  until,  finally,  his  mouth  hung  open  slackly,  fool 
ishly;  presently,  two  enormous  tears  gathered  in  the 
corners  of  his  eyes  and  cascaded  slowly  acro.ss  his  cheeks 
into  his  whiskers.  He  gripped  the  arms  of  his  chair. 

"O  God,  forgive  me !"  he  moaned.  "The  Laird  doesn't 
know  where  she  is,  and  neither  do  I.  I  induced  her  to 
go  away,  and  she's  lost  somewhere  in  the  world.  To 
find  her  now  would  be  like  searching  a  haystack  for  a 
needle." 

"But  you  might  telegraph  a  space-ad  to  every  lead 
ing  newspaper  in  the  country.  The  Laird  can  afford 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

to  spend  a  million  to  find  her — if  she  can  be  found  in  a 
hurry.  Why,  even  a  telegram  from  her  would  help  to 
buck  him  up." 

But  Andrew  Daney  could  only  sway  in  his  chair  and 
quiver  with  his  profound  distress. 

"The  scandal!"  he  kept  murmuring,  "the  damned 
scandal!  I'll  have  to  go  to  Seattle  to  send  the  tele 
grams.  The  local  office  would  leak.  And  even  if  we 
found  her  and  induced  her  to  come  back  to  save  him, 
she'd — she'd  have  to  go  away  again — and  if  she 
wouldn't — if  he  wouldn't  permit  her — why,  don't  you 
see  how  impossible  a  situation  has  developed?  Man, 
can  Donald  McKaye  wed  Nan  Brent  of  the  Sawdust 
Pile?" 

"My  interest  in  the  case  is  neither  sentimental  nor 
ethical.  It  is  entirely  professional.  It  appears  to  me 
that  in  trying  to  save  this  young  fellow  from  the  girl, 
you've  signed  his  death  warrant ;  now  it  is  up  to  you 
to  save  him  from  himself,  and  you're  worrying  because 
it  may  be  necessary  later  to  save  the  girl  from  him  or 
him  from  the  girl.  Well,  I've  stated  the  facts  to  you, 
and  I  tried  to  state  them  to  The  Laird.  Do  as  you 
think  best.  If  the  boy  dies,  of  course,  I'll  swear  that 
he  was  doomed,  anyhow,  due  to  perforation  of  the  intes 
tines." 

"Yes,  yes !"  Daney  gasped.  "Let  The  Laird  off  as 
lightly  as  you  can." 

"Oh,  I'll  lie  cheerfully.  By  the  way,  who  is  this  girl  ? 
I  haven't  been  in  Port  Agnew  long  enough  to  have  ac 
quired  all  the  gossip.  Is  she  impossible?" 

"She's  had  a  child  born  out  of  wedlock." 

"Oh,  then  she's  not  a  wanton?" 

"I'm  quite  sure  she  is  not." 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

"Well,  I'll  be  damned!  So  that's  all  that's  wrong 
with  her,  eh?"  Like  the  majority  of  his  profession,  this 
physician  looked  up  such  a  contretemps  with  a  kindly 
and  indulgent  eye.  In  all  probability,  most  of  us  would 
if  we  but  knew  as  many  of  the  secrets  of  men  as  do  our 
doctors  and  lawyers. 

Long  after  the  doctor  had  left  him  alone  with  his 
terrible  problem,  Mr.  Daney  continued  to  sit  in  his 
chair,  legs  and  arms  asprawl,  chin  on  breast.  From 
time  to  time,  he  cried  audibly: 

"O  Lord!  O  my  God!  What  have  I  done?  What 
shall  I  do?  How  shall  I  do  it?  OLord!" 

He  was  quite  too  incoherent  for  organized  prayer; 
nevertheless  his  agonized  cry  to  Omnipotence  was,  in 
deed,  a  supplication  to  which  the  Lord  must  have  in 
clined  favorably,  for,  in  the  midst  of  his  desolation  and 
bewilderment,  the  door  opened  and  Dirty  Dan  O'Leary 
presented  himself. 


XXIX 

THANKS  to  the  constitution  of  a  Nubian  lion,  Dirty 
Dan's  wounds  and  contusions  had  healed  very  rap 
idly  and  after  he  got  out  of  hospital,  he  spent  ten 
days  in  recuperating  his  sadly  depleted  strength.  His 
days  he  spent  in  the  sunny  lee  of  a  lumber  pile  in  the 
drying-yard,  where,  in  defiance  of  the  published  ord 
inance,  he  smoked  plug  tobacco  and  perused  the  Gaelic 
American. 

Now,  Mr.  O'Leary,  as  has  been  stated  earlier  in  this 
chronicle,  was  bad  black  Irish.  Since  the  advent  of 
Oliver  Cromwell  into  Ireland,  the  males  of  every  gen 
eration  of  the  particular  tribe  of  O'Leary  to  which 
Dirty  Dan  belonged  had  actively  or  passively  supported 
the  battles  of  Ould  Ireland  against  the  hereditary  enemy 
across  the  Channel,  and  Dirty  Dan  had  suckled  this  holy 
hatred  at  his  mother's  breast;  wherefore  he  regarded 
it  in  the  light  of  his  Christian  duty  to  keep  that  hate 
alive  by  subscribing  to  the  Gaelic  American  and  believ 
ing  all  he  read  therein  anent  the  woes  of  the  Emerald 
Isle.  Mr.  O'Leary  was  also  a  member  of  an  Irish- 
American  revolutionary  society,  and  was  therefore 
aware  that  presently  his  kind  of  Irish  were  to  rise,  cast 
off  their  shackles  (and,  with  the  help  o*  God  and  the 
German  kaiser)  proclaim  the  Irish  Republic. 

For  several  months  past,  Daniel's  dreams  had  dwelt 
mostly  with  bayonet-practice.  Ordinary  bayonets,  how 
ever,  were  not  for  him.  He  dreamed  his  trusty  steel 

223 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

was  as  long  as  a  cross-cut  saw,  and  nightly  he  skewered 
British  soldiers  on  it  after  the  fashion  of  kidneys  and 
bacon  en  brochette.  IV>r  two  months  he  had  been  sav 
ing  his  money  toward  a  passage  home  to  Ireland  and 
the  purchase  of  a  rifle  and  two  thousand  rounds  of 
ammunition — soft-nose  bullets  preferred — with  the 
pious  intention  of  starting  with  "th'  bhoys"  at  the  very 
beginning  and  going  through  with  them  to  the  bloody 
and  triumphant  finish. 

Unfortunately  for  Dirty  Dan,  his  battle  in  defense 
of  Donald  McKaye  had  delayed  his  sortie  to  the  fields 
of  martyrdom.  On  the  morning  that  Nan  Brent  left 
Port  Agnew,  however,  fortune  had  again  smiled  upon 
The  O'Leary.  Meeting  Judge  Moore,  who  occupied  two 
local  offices — justice  of  the  peace  and  coroner — upon 
the  street,  that  functionary  had  informed  Dan  that  the 
public  generally,  and  he  and  the  town  marshal  in  par 
ticular,  traced  an  analogy  between  the  death  of  the 
mulatto  in  Darrow  and  Mr.  O'Leary's  recent  sojourn 
in  the  Tyee  Lumber  Company's  hospital,  and  there 
upon,  verbally  subpoenaed  him  to  appear  before  a  coro 
ner's  jury  the  following  day  at  ten  o'clock  A.  M.,  then 
and  there  to  tell  what  he  knew  about  said  homicide. 

Dirty  Dan  received  this  summons  with  outward  non 
chalance  but  tremendous  secret  apprehensions,  and  im 
mediately  fled  for  advice  to  no  less  a  person  than  An 
drew  Daney. 

However,  the  Fates  ordained  that  Andrew  Daney 
should  be  spared  the  trouble  of  advising  Dirty  Dan,  for 
as  the  latter  came  shuffling  down  the  hall  toward  Da- 
ney's  office  door,  The  Laird  emerged  from  his  old  office 
and  accosted  his  henchman. 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  225 

"Well,  Dan!"  he  greeted  the  convalescent,  "how  do 
you  find  yourself  these  days  ?" 

"Poorly,  sir,  poorly,"  Dirty  Dan  declared.  "  'Twas 
only  yisterd'y  I  had  to  take  the  other  side  av  the 
shtreet  to  av'id  a  swamper  from  Darrow,  sir." 

The  Laird  smiled. 

"Well,  Dan,  I  think  it's  about  time  I  did  something 
to  make  you  feel  better.  I  owe  you  considerable  for 
that  night's  work,  so  here's  a  thousand  dollars  for  you, 
my  boy.  Go  down  to  southern  California  or  Florida 
for  a  month  or  two,  and  when  you're  back  in  your  old 
form,  report  for  duty.  I  have  an  idea  Mr.  Donald 
intends  to  make  you  foreman  of  the  loading-sheds  and 
the  drying-yard  when  you're  ready  for  duty." 

"God  bless  ye,  me  lord,  an'  may  the  heavens  be  your 
bed!"  murmured  the  astounded  lumberjack,  as  The 
Laird  produced  his  wallet  and  counted  into  Dan's  grimy 
quivering  paw  ten  crisp  hundred-dollar  bills.  "Oh, 
t'ank  you,  sor;  t'ank  you  a  t'ousand  times,  sor.  An' 
ye'll  promise  me,  won't  ye,  to  sind  for  me  firrst-off 
if  ye  should  be  wantin*  some  blackguard  kilt?" 

"I  assure  you,  Dan,  you  are  my  sole  official  killer," 
laughed  The  Laird,  and  shook  the  O'Leary's  hand  with 
great  heartiness.  "Better  take  my  advice  about  a 
good  rest,  Dan." 

"Sor,  I'll  be  afther  havin'  the  vacation  o'  me  life." 

"Good-by,  then,  and  good  luck  to  you,  Dan !" 

"Good-by,  an'  God  bless  ye,  sor!" 

Five  minutes  later,  Daniel  J.  O'Leary  was  in  the 
general  store  fitting  on  what  he  termed  a  "Sunday 
suit."  Also,  he  bought  himself  two  white  shirts  of  the 
"b'iled5"  variety,  a  red  necktie,  a  brown  Derby  hat,  and  a 
pair  O-  shoes,  all  too  narrow  to  accommodate  comfort- 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

ably  his  care-free  toes.  Next,  he  repaired  to  the  bar 
ber-ship,  where  he  had  a  hair-cut  and  a  shave.  His 
ragged  red  mustache,  ordinarily  of  the  soup-strainer 
pattern,  he  had  trimmed,  waxed,  and  turned  up  at  each 
end;  the  barber  put  much  pomade  on  his  hair  and 
combed  it  in  a  Mazeppa,  with  the  result  that  when 
Daniel  J.  O'Leary  appeared  at  the  railroad  station  the 
following  morning,  and  purchased  a  ticket  for  New 
York  City,  Hector  McKaye,  loitering  in  front  of  the 
station  on  the  lookout  for  Nan  Brent,  looked  at  and 
through  Mr.  O'Leary  without  recognizing  him  from 
Adam's  off  ox. 

It  is,  perhaps,  superfluous  to  remark  that  Dirty  Dan 
was  about  to  embark  upon  an  enterprise  designed  to 
make  his  dreams  come  true.  He  was  headed  for  Ireland 
and  close  grips  with  the  hated  redcoats  as  fast  as  train 
and  steamer  could  bear  him. 

Now,  Mr.  O'Leary  had  never  seen  Nan  Brent,  al 
though  he  had  heard  her  discussed  in  one  or  two  bunk- 
houses  about  the  time  her  child  had  been  born.  Also, 
he  was  a  lumberjack,  and  since  lumberjacks  never  speak 
to  the  "main  push"  unless  first  spoken  to,  he  did  not 
regard  it  as  all  necessary  to  bring  himself  to  Hector 
McKaye's  notice  when  his  alert  intelligence  informed 
him  that  The  Laird  had  failed  to  recognize  him  in  his 
going-away  habiliments.  Further,  he  could  see  with 
half  an  eye  that  The  Laird  was  waiting  for  somebody, 
and  when  that  somebody  appeared  on  the  scene,  the  imp 
of  suspicion  in  Dirty  Dan's  character  whispered:  "Be- 
gorra,  is  the  father  up  to  some  shenanigans  like  the 
son?  Who's  this  girrl?  I  dunno.  A  youn£'  widder, 
belike,  seein'  she  has  a  youngster  wit*  her." 

He  saw  Nan  and  The  Laird  enter  into  eai  lest  con- 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  227 

versation,  and  his  curiosity  mastering  him,  he  ventured 
to  inquire  of  a  roustabout  who  was  loading  baggage  on 
a  truck  who  the  young  lady  might  be.  Upon  receiving 
the  desired  information,  he,  with  difficulty  repressed 
a  whistle  of  amazement  and  understanding;  instantly 
his  active  imagination  was  at  work. 

The  girl  was  leaving  Port  Agnew.  That  was  evident. 
Also,  The  Laird  must  have  known  of  this,  for  he  had 
reached  the  station  before  the  girl  and  waited  for  her. 
Therefore,  he  must  have  had  something  to  do  with  in 
ducing  her  to  depart.  Mr.  O'Leary  concluded  that  it 
was  quite  within  the  realm  of  possibility  that  The  Laird 
had  made  it  well  worth  her  while  to  refrain  from  wreck 
ing  the  honor  of  his  house,  and  he  watched  narrowly 
to  observe  whether  or  not  money  passed  between  them. 

One  thing  puzzled  Dirty  Dan  extremely.  That  was 
the  perfectly  frank,  friendly  manner  in  which  his  em 
ployer  and  this  outcast  woman  greeted  each  other,  the 
earnestness  with  which  they  conversed,  and  the  effect  of 
the  woman's  low-spoken  words  upon  the  color  of  Hector 
McKaye's  face.  When  The  Laird  took  his  leave,  the 
lumberjack  noted  the  increased  respect — the  emotion, 
even — with  which  he  parted  from  her.  The  lumber 
jack  heard  him  say,  "Good-by,  my  dear,  and  good  luck 
to  you  wherever  you  go";  so  it  was  obvious  Nan  Brent 
was  not  corning  back  to  Port  Agnew.  Knowing  what 
he  knew,  Mr.  O'Leary  decided  that,  upon  the  whole, 
here  was  good  riddance  to  the  McKaye  family  of  rub 
bish  that  might  prove  embarrassing  if  permitted  to  re 
main  dumped  on  the  Sawdust  Pile. 

"Poor  gurrl,"  he  reflected  as  he  followed  Nan  aboard 
the  train.  "She  have  a  sweet  face,  that  she  have,  God 


228  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

forgive  her !  An  be  th'  Rock  av  Cashel,  slie  have  a  v'ice 
like  an  angel  from  heaven. " 

He  sat  down  in  a  seat  behind  her  and  across  the 
aisle,  and  all  the  way  to  Seattle  he  stared  at  the  back 
of  her  neck  or  the  beautiful  rounded  profile  of  her  cheek. 
From  time  to  time,  he  wondered  how  much  Hector 
McKaye  had  paid  her  to  disappear  out  of  his  son's 
life,  and  how  that  son  would  feel,  and  what  he  would 
say  to  his  father  when  he  discovered  his  light  o'  love  had 
flown  the  cage. 

The  following  morning  Mr.  O'Leary  boarded  a  tour 
ist-sleeper  on  the  Canadian  Pacific,  and,  to  his  pro 
found  amazement,  discovered  that  Nan  Brent  and  her 
child  occupied  a  section  in  the  same  car. 

"Begorra,  she  couldn't  have  shtuck  the  ould  man 
very  deep  at  that,  or  'tis  in  a  standard  shleeper  an' 
not  a  tourist  she'd  be  riding,"  he  reflected.  "What  the 
divil's  up  here  at  all,  at  all,  I  dunno." 

Dirty  Dan  saw  her  enter  a  taxicab  at  the  Grand 
Central  Station  in  New  York. 

"I  wonder  if  the  young  Caddyheck  himself'll  meet 
her  here,"  Mr.  O'Leary  reflected,  alive  with  sudden  sus 
picion,  and  springing  into  the  taxicab  that  drew  in  at 
the  stand  the  instant  the  taxi  bearing  Nan  and  her 
child  pulled  out,  he  directed  the  driver  to  follow  the  car 
ahead,  and  in  due  course  found  himself  before  the  en 
trance  to  a  hotel  in  lower  Broadway — one  of  that  fast 
disappearing  number  of  fifth-class  hotels  which  were 
first-class  thirty  years  ago. 

Dirty  Dan  hovered  in  the  offing  until  Nan  had  regis 
tered  and  gone  up  to  her  room.  Immediately  he  regis 
tered  also,  and,  while  doing  so,  observed  that  Nan  had 
signed  her  real  name  and  given  her  address  as  Port 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  229 

Agnew,  Washington.  With  unexpected  nicety,  Dirty 
Dan  decided  not  to  embarrass  her  by  registering  from 
Port  Agnew  also,  so  he  gave  his  address  as  Seattle. 

For  two  days,  he  forgot  the  woes  of  Ireland  and 
sat  round  the  stuffy  lobby,  awaiting  Nan  Brent's  next 
move.  When  he  saw  her  at  the  cashier's  window  paying 
out,  he  concealed  himself  behind  a  newspaper,  and 
watched  her  covertly  as  the  clerk  gave  instructions  to 
the  head  porter  regarding  the  disposition  of  her  bag 
gage.  The  instant  she  left  the  hotel,  accompanied  by 
her  child,  Dirty  Dan  approached  the  porter  and  said 
with  an  insinuating  smile: 

"I'd  give  a  dollar  to  know  the  address  the  young  lady 
wit'  the  baby  bhoy  give  you  f'r  the  delivery  av  her 
trunk." 

The  porter  reached  for  the  dollar  and  handed  Dirty 
Dan  a  shipping  tag  containing  the  address.  Mr. 
O'Leary  laboriously  wrote  the  address  in  a  filthy  little 
memorandum-book,  and  that  afternoon  made  a  point 
of  looking  up  Nan's  new  habitation.  He  discovered 
it  to  be  an  old  brownstone  front  in  lower  Madison 
Avenue,  and  a  blue-and-gold  sign  over  the  area  fence  in 
dicated  to  Mr.  O'Leary  that,  from  an  abode  of  ancient 
New  York  aristocracy,  the  place  had  degenerated  into 
a  respectable  boarding-house. 

"  'Tis  true,"  Dirty  Dan  murmured.  "She's  given 
the  young  fella  the  go-by.  Hurro !  An'  I'm  bettin' 
I'm  the  only  lad  in  the  wide,  wide  wurrld  that  knows 
where  she's  gone.  Faith,  but  wouldn't  Misther  Donald 
pay  handsomely  for  the  information  in  me  little  book." 

Having,  as  he  judged,  followed  the  mystery  to  its 
logical  conclusion,  Mr.  O'Leary  was  sensible  of  a  sud 
den  waning  of  his  abnormal  curiosity  in  Nan  Brent's 


230  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

affairs.  He  acknowledged  to  himself  that  he  had  spent 
time  and  money  on  a  matter  that  was  absolutely  none  of 
his  business,  but  excused  himself  upon  the  ground 
that  if  he  hadn't  investigated  the  matter  thoroughly, 
his  failure  to  do  so  might  annoy  him  in  the  future.  If, 
for  no  other  reason  than  the  desirability  of  being  on 
the  inside  track  of  this  little  romance  of  a  rich  man's 
son,  his  action  was  to  be  commended.  People  have  no 
business  disappearing  without  leaving  a  trace  or  saying 
good-by  to  those  that  love  them.  Dirty  Dan  hadn't 
the  least  idea  of  selling  his  information  to  Donald  Mc- 
Kaye,  but  something  in  his  peculiar  mental  make-up 
caused  him  to  cherish  a  secret  for  its  own  sake ;  he  had 
a  true  Irishman's  passion  for  being  "in  the  know,"  and 
now  that  he  was  in  it,  he  was  tremendously  satisfied 
with  himself  and  dismissed  the  entire  matter  from  his 
mind.  Old  Ireland  and  her  woes  were  again  paramount, 
so  Mr.  O'Leary  presented  himself  before  the  proper  au 
thorities  and  applied  for  a  passport  to  visit  Ireland. 

Now,  while  Daniel  J.  did  not  know  it,  one  of  the  first 
questions  the  applicant  for  a  passport  is  required  to 
answer  is  his  reason  for  desiring  to  make  the  journey, 
and  during  the  Great  War,  as  everybody  of  mature 
years  will  recall,  civilians  were  not  permitted  to  subject 
themselves  to  the  dangers  of  a  ruthless  submarine  war 
without  good  and  sufficient  reason.  Mr.  O'Leary  had  a 
reason — to  his  way  of  thinking,  the  noblest  reason  in  all 
the  world ;  consequently  he  was  proud  of  it  and  not  at 
all  inclined  to  conceal  it. 

"I'm  goin'  over  there,"  he  declared,  with  profane  em 
phasis,  "to  kill  all  the  damned  English  I  can  before  they 
kill  me." 

His  interlocutor  gravely  wrote  this  reply  down  in 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  231 

Mr.  O'Leary's  exact  language  and  proceeded  to  the 
other  questions.  When  the  application  was  completed, 
Dirty  Dan  certified  to  the  correctness  of  it,  and  was 
then  smilingly  informed  that  he  had  better  go  back 
where  he  carne  from,  because  his  application  for  a  pass 
port  was  denied.  Consumed  with  fury,  the  patriot 
thereupon  aired  his  opinion  of  the  Government  of  the 
United  States,  with  particular  reference  to  its  repre 
sentative  then  present,  and  in  the  pious  hope  of  drown 
ing  his  sorrows,  went  forth  and  proceeded  to  get 
drunk. 

When  drunk,  Mr.  O'Leary  always  insisted,  in  the 
early  stages  of  his  delirium,  on  singing  Hibernian  bal 
lads  descriptive  of  the  unflinching  courage,  pure  pa 
triotism  and  heroic  sacrifices  of  the  late  Owen  Roe 
O'Neill  and  O'Donnell  Abu.  Later  in  the  evening  he 
would  howl  like  a  timber-wolf  and  throw  glasses,  and 
toward  morning  he  always  fought  it  out  on  the  floor 
with  some  enemy.  Of  course,  in  the  sawmill  towns  of 
the  great  Northwest,  where  folks  knew  Mr.  O'Leary 
and  others  of  his  ilk,  it  was  the  custom  to  dodge  the 
glasses  and  continue  to  discuss  the  price  of  log's. 
Toward  Dirty  Dan,  however,  New  York  turned  a  sin 
gularly  cold  shoulder.  The  instant  he  threw  a  glass,  the 
barkeeper  tapped  him  with  a  "billy" ;  then  a  policeman 
took  him  in  tow,  and  the  following  morning,  Dirty  Dan, 
sick,  sore,  and  repentant  was  explaining  to  a  police 
judge  that  he  was  from  Port  Agnew,  Washington,  and 
really  hadn't  meant  any  harm.  He  was,  therefore,  fined 
five  dollars  and  ordered  to  depart  forthwith  for  Port 
Agnew,  Washington,  which  he  did,  arriving  there  abso 
lutely  penniless  and  as  hungry  as  a  cougar  in  mid 
winter.  He  fled  over  to  the  mill  kitchen,  tossed  about 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

five  dollars  worth  of  ham  and  eggs  and  hot  biscuit  into 
his  empty  being,  and  began  to  take  stock  of  life.  Nat 
urally,  the  first  thing  he  recalled  in  mind  was  The 
Laird's  remark  that  Donald  planned  to  make  him  fore 
man  of  the  loading-sheds  and  drying-yards ;  so  he 
wasted  no  time  in  presenting  himself  before  Donald's 
office  door.  To  his  repeated  knocking  there  was  no  re 
ply,  so  he  sought  Mr.  Daney. 

"Hello,  Dan!  You  back?"  Daney  greeted  him. 
"Glad  to  see  you.  Looking  for  Mr.  Donald?" 

"Yes,  sor;  thank  you,  sor." 

"Mr.  Donald  is  ill  in  the  company's  hospital.  We're 
afraid,  Dan,  that  he  isn't  going  to  pull  through." 

"Glory  be !"  Mr.  O'Leary  gasped,  horrified  on  two 
counts.  First,  because  he  revered  his  young  boss,  and, 
second,  because  the  latter's  death  might  nullify  his  op 
portunity  to  become  foreman  of  the  loading-sheds  and 
drying-yard.  "Sure,  what's  happened  to  the  poor 
bhoy?"" 

Before  Daney  could  answer,  a  terrible  suspicion  shot 
through  the  agile  and  imaginative  O'Leary  brain.  In 
common  with  several  million  of  his  countrymen,  he  al 
ways  voiced  the  first  thought  that  popped  into  his  head  ; 
so  he  lowered  that  member,  likewise  his  voice,  peered 
cunningly  into  Andrew  Daney's  haggard  face,  and  whis 
pered  : 

"Don't  tell  me  he  tried  to  commit  suicide,  what  wit' 
his  poor  broken  heart  an'  all !" 

It  was  Andrew  Dancy's  turn  to  peer  suspiciously  at 
Dirty  Dan.  For  a  few  seconds,  they  faced  each  other 
like  a  pair  of  belligerent  game-cocks.  Then  said  Daney : 

"How  do  you  know  his  heart  was  broken?" 

Dirty  Dan  didn't  know.     The  thought  hadn't  even 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

occurred  to  him  until  ten  seconds  before;  yet,  from 
the  solemnity  of  Daney's  face  and  manner,  he  knew 
instantly  that  once  more  his  feet  were  about  to  tread  the 
trails  of  romance,  and  the  knowledge  imbued  him  with 
a  deep  sense  of  importance. 

He  winked  knowingly. 

"Beggin'  yer  pardon,  Misther  Daney  an'  not  m'anin' 
the  least  offinse  in  life,  but — I  know  a  lot  about  that 
young  man — yis,  an'  the  young  leddy,  too — that  divil  a 
sowl  on  earth  knows  or  is  goin'  to  find  out."  He  tried  a 
shot  in  the  dark.  "That  was  a  clever  bit  o'  wurrk 
gettin'  her  out  o'  Port  Agnew 

Andrew  Daney's  hands  closed  about  Dirty  Dan's  col 
lar,  and  he  was  jerked  violently  into  the  latter's  office, 
while  Daney  closed  and  locked  the  door  behind  them. 
The  general  manager  was  white  and  trembling. 

"You  damned,  cunning  mick,  you !"  he  cried,  in  a 
low  voice.  "I  believe  you're  right.  You  do  know  a  lot 
about  this  affair " 

"Well,  if  I  do,  I  haven't  talked  about  it,"  Dirty  Dan 
reminded  him  with  asperity. 

"You  knew  the  girl  had  left  Port  Agnew  and  why, 
do  you  not?"  Daney  demanded. 

"Of  course  I  do.  She  left  to  plaze  The  Laird  an*  get 
rid  o*  the  young  fella.  Whether  Th'  Laird  paid  her  to 
go  or  not,  I  don't  know,  but  I'll  say  this :  'If  he  gave 
her  anythiii'  at  all,  'twas  damned  little.' ' 

"He  didn't  give  her  a  red  cent,"  Daney  protested. 

"I  believe  you,  sor,"  Mr.  O'Leary  assured  him,  as 
solemn  as  a  Supreme  Court  justice.  "I  judged  so  be 
the  way  she  traveled  an'  the  hotel  she  shtopped  at." 

Daney  made  another  dive  at  the  returned  prodigal, 
but  Mr.  O'Leary  evaded  him. 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

"Where  did  she  travel,  and  what  hotel  did  she  put  up 
at?"  the  general  manager  demanded. 

"She  traveled  to  the  same  places  an'  put  up  at  the 
same  hotels  that  I  did,"  Dirty  Dan  replied  evasively, 
for  his  natural  love  for  intrigue  bade  him  hoard  his 
secret  to  the  last. 

Daney  sat  down  and  said  very  quietly:  "Dan,  do 
you  know  where  Nan  Brent  may  be  found?" 

''Where  she  may  be  found?  Faith,  I  can  tell  you 
where  she  can  be  found — but  I'll  not." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  'tis  her  secret,  an*  why  should  I  share  it 
wit'  you,  m'anin'  no  disrespect,  sor,  at  that?" 

"Your  sentiments  do  you  honor,  Dan — a  heap  more 
honor  than  I  ever  thought  you  possessed.  If  Mr.  Don 
ald's  life  should  happen  to  be  the  price  of  your  silence, 
however,  you'd  tell  me,  wouldn't  you?" 

"I  would.  The  young  gintlemin's  blood  runs  in  my 
veins,  sor." 

''Thank  you,  Dan.     Give  me  her  address." 

"Number  one  eighty-five  Madison  Avenue,  Noo  Yorrk 
City,"  Dirty  Dan  replied  promptly.  "More  I  do  not 
know.  Am  I  on  the  pay-roll  agin  ?" 

"You  bet!  I'll  pick  out  a  good  job  for  you  as  soon 
as  I  find  time  to  think  about  it." 

"Could  I  have  a  dollar  or  two  in  advance — "  the  wan 
derer  began,  as  Daney  hastened  toward  the  door, 

"Certainly."  The  door  slammed,  and  Dirty  Dan 
could  hear  the  general  manager  shouting  in  the  general 
office.  "Dirty  Dan  is  back.  Give  him  some  money." 

Mr.  O'Leary  sighed  contentedly. 

"Oh-ho,  'tis  the  great  life  we  live,"  he  murmured,  and 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  385 

hastened  outside  to  present  himself  at  the  cashier's  win 
dow,  while  Andrew  Daney  continued  on  to  the  Tyee 
Lumber  Company's  hospital,  tiptoed  down  the  corridor 
to  the  room  where  the  young  Laird  of  Port  Agnew  laj 
dying,  and  rapped  lightly  on  the  door.  A  nurse  came 
out  and  closed  the  door  after  her. 

"Well?"  Daney  demanded. 

"No  change.  His  temperature  fell  two  degrees  dur 
ing  the  night  and  he  slept  a  little,  but  the  fever  is  up 
again  this  morning,  and  he's  raving  again.  Any  news 
at  your  end  ?" 

"Yes.  I  have  the  girl's  address.  She's  in  New  York. 
Is  his  father  inside  ?" 

"Yes," 

"Ask  him  to  step  into  the  reception  room  for  a  few 
minutes,  please." 

The  Laird  appeared  promptly  in  response  to  this 
message,  and  the  two  men  walked  slowly  down  the  hall 
to  the  reception-room.  Daney  closed  the  door  and  reso 
lutely  faced  The  Laird. 

"The  doctors  and  the  nurses  tell  me  things,  sir, 
they're  afraid  to  tell  you,"  he  began.  "Ordinarily,  the 
boy  should  be  able  to  fight  this  thing  through  success 
fully,  for  he  has  a  splendid  body  and  a  lot  of  resistance, 
but  the  fact  of  the  matter  is,  he  isn't  trying.  He  doesn't 
want  to  get  well." 

The  Laird's  face  went  white. 

"They  believe  this?"  he  cried  sharply. 

"They  do.  His  subconscious  mind  clings  to  the  mem 
ory  of  his  loss.  He  keeps  calling  for  her  in  his  de 
lirium,  doesn't  he?  Now  that  he  is  assured  she  has 
dropped  out  of  his  life  forever,  he  doesn't  give  a  snap 


236  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

whether  school  keeps  or  not — and  the  doctors  cannot 
cure  him.  If  the  girl  were  here — well,  she  might.  Her 
very  presence  would  bring  about  a  strong  mental  and 
physical  reaction — "  He  paused  a  moment.  Then,  "I 
know  where  she  can  be  found." 

The  Laird  raised  his  haggard  face  and  though  his 
stern  gray  eyes  were  dull  with  agony,  yet  Daney  saw 
in  them  the  light  of  an  unfaltering  resolution. 

"I  have  left  my  son's  honor  and  his  life  in  the  hands 
of  God  Almighty.  I  have  made  my  bed  and  I'll  lie  in 
it,"  he  panted. 

"But  if  the  boy  should  die " 

"Rather  that  than— than " 

"But  you're  not  going  to  take  a  chance  on  his  pull 
ing  through,  in  the  face  of  the  advice  of  the  doctors  that 
only  the  girl's  presence  can  stimulate  him  to  a  desire 
to  live.  I  tell  you,  Hector  McKaye,  man,  he's  dying 
because  he  is  not  interested  in  living." 

"God's  will  be  done,  Andrew.  If  I  asked  her  to  come 
back  and  save  my  lad,  I'd  have  to  surrender  him  to 
her,  and  I  would  be  derelict  in  my  duty  as  a  father  if 
I  permitted  that.  Better  that  he  should  pass  out  now 
than  know  the  horror  of  a  living  death  through  all  the 
years  to  come.  God  knows  best.  It  is  up  to  Him.  Let 
there  be  no  talk  of  this  thing  again,  Andrew."  Ab 
ruptly  he  quitted  the  room  and  returned  to  his  vigil  by 
the  side  of  the  son  who  was  at  once  the  light  and  the 
shadow  of  his  existence. 

The  nurse  came  stealthily  to  the  reception-room 
entrance  and  looked  in  inquiringly.  Daney  shook  his 
head,  so  she  came  into  the  room  and  pointed  at  him  a 
singularly  commanding  mdex-fing^ . 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  237 

"If  that  old  man  is  permitted  to  have  his  stubborn 
way,  Donald  McKaye  will  die,"  she  declared. 

"So  will  old  Hector.  He'll  be  dead  of  a  broken  heart 
within  the  year." 

"He's  sacrificing  his  son  to  his  Scotch  pride.  Now, 
his  mother  is  far  more  bitter  against  the  girl  than  The 
Laird  is ;  in  her  distress  she  accuses  the  Brent  girl  of 
destroying  her  son.  Nevertheless,  Mrs.  McKaye's  pride 
and  resentment  are  not  so  intense  that  she  will  sacrifice 
her  son  to  them." 

"Then  give  her  this  address,"  Daney  suggested  weak 
ly,  and  handed  it  over.  "I'm  caught  between  the  upper 
and  nether  millstone,  and  I  don't  care  what  happens 
to  me.  Damn  the  women,  say  I.  Damn  them !  Damn 
them!  They're  the  ones  that  do  all  the  talking,  set 
up  a  cruel  moral  code,  and  make  a  broad-minded,  gen 
erous  man  follow  it." 

"Thanks  for  the  compliment,"1  the  nurse  retorted 
blithely.  "If  I  had  time,  I'd  discuss  the  matter  with  you 
to  your  disadvantage,  but,  fortunately,  I  have  other  fish 
to  fry.  My  job  is  to  keep  Donald  McKaye  alive  for 
the  next  five  or  six  days  until  Nan  Brent  can  get  here. 
She'll  come.  I  know  she  will.  She'd  lie  down  in  the 
street  and  die  for  him.  I  know  it.  I  spent  two  days 
with  her  when  her  father  was  dead,  and  let  me  tell  you 
something,  Mr.  Daney:  'She's  too  good  for  them. 
There !  I  feel  better  now.'  " 

"What  a  remarkable  woman!"  Mr.  Daney  reflected, 
as  he  walked  back  to  the  mill  office.  "What  a  truly 
remarkable  woman!"  Then  he  remembered  the  com 
plications  that  were  about  to  ensue,  and  to  the  wonder 
ment  of  several  citizens  of  Port  Agnew,  he  paused  in 


238  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

front  of  the  postoffice,  threw  both  arms  aloft  in  an 
agitated  flourish,  and  cried  audibly : 

"Hell's  bells  and  panther-tracks!  I'd  give  a  ripe 
peach  to  be  in  hell  or  some  other  seaport.  O  Lordy, 
Lordy,  Lordy !  And  all  the  calves  got  loose !" 


XXX 

AS  a  wife,  it  is  probable  that  Nellie  McKaye  had 
not  been  an  altogether  unqualified  success.  She 
lacked  tact,  understanding  and  sympathy  where  her 
husband  was  concerned;  she  was  one  of  that  numerous 
type  of  wife  who  loses  a  great  deal  of  interest  in  her 
husband  after  their  first  child  is  born.  The  Laird's 
wife  was  normally  intelligent,  peacefully  inclined,  ex 
tremely  good-looking  both  as  to  face  and  figure,  despite 
her  years,  and  always  abnormally  concerned  over  what 
the  most  inconsequential  people  in  the  world  might  think 
of  her  and  hers.  She  had  a  passion  for  being  socially 
"correct."  Flights  of  imagination  were  rarely  hers ; 
on  the  few  occasions  when  they  were,  her  thoughts  had 
to  do  with  an  advantageous  marriage  for  Jane  and 
Elizabeth,  who,  it  must  be  confessed,  had  not  had  very 
good  luck  holding  on  to  the  few  eligible  young  bachelors 
who  had  seemed,  for  a  brief  period,  to  regard  them  with 
serious  intent.  The  poor  soul  was  worried  about  the 
girls,  as  well  she  might  be,  since  the  strides  of  time 
were  rapidly  bearing  both  into  the  sere-and-yellow-leaf 
period  of  life.  For  her  son,  she  had  earnest,  passionate 
mother  love,  but  since,  like  all  mothers,  she  was  ob 
sessed  with  the  delusion  that  every  girl  in  the  world, 
eligible  and  ineligible,  was  busy  angling  for  her  dar 
ling,  she  had  left  his  matrimonial  future  largely  to  his 
father.  Frequently  her  conscience  smote  her  for  her 
neglect  of  old  Hector,  but  she  smoothed  it  by  promising 

239 


240  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

herself  to  devote  more  time  to  him,  more  study  to  his 
masculine  needs  for  wifely  devotion,  as  soon  as  Eliza 
beth  and  Jane  should  be  settled. 

Her  son's  acute  illness  and  the  possibility  that  he 
might  not  survive  it  had  brought  her  closer  to  The 
Laird  than  these  twain  had  been  in  twenty  years ;  the 
blow  that  had  all  but  crushed  him  had  not  even  stag 
gered  her,  for  she  told  herself  that,  during  this  crisis 
she  must  keep  her  feet  and  her  head.  A  wave  of  pity 
for  her  husband  and  a  tinge  of  shame  for  her  years  of 
neglect  of  him  revived  more  than  a  modicum  of  the  old 
honeymoon  tenderness,  and,  to  her  mild  amazement,  she 
discovered  that  she  was  still,  in  old  Hector's  eyes,  young 
and  beautiful;  her  breast,  her  lips,  still  had  power  to 
soothe  and  comfort. 

In  those  trying  days  she  was  The  Lsh'd  g  greatest 
asset.  With  maternal  stubbornness,  she  resolutely  re 
fused  to  entertain  the  thought  that  her  son  might  die. 
She  could  understand  the  possibility  of  some  other 
woman's  son  dying,  but  not  hers !  she,  who  knew  him  so 
well  (or  thought  she  did,  which  amounts  to  the  same 
thing),  met  with  gentle  tolerance  and  contempt  the 
portentous  nods  and  anxious  glances  of  doctors  and 
trained  nurses.  'Fraid-cats — every  last  one  of  them! 
She  told  old  Hector  so  and,  to  a  considerable  extent, 
succeeded  in  making  him  believe  it. 

After  The  Laird's  interview  with  Andrew  ^aney  he 
came  home  that  night  to  The  Dr^0  md,  to  please 

Nellie,  he  pretended  to  partake  cf  •       Also, 

during  the  course  of  the  meal  he  ed  to 

relate  to  his  wife  and  daughters  '»  •   .  •  knew 

of  the  course  of  the  affair  between  Donald  and  Nan 
Brent;  he  repeated  his  conversation  (ritl  '•-'.  cm  the 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

two  occasions  he  had  spoken  with  her,  and  gave  them 
to  understand  that  his  efforts  to  induce  Donald  to  "be 
sensible"  had  not  been  successful.  Finally,  his  distress 
making  him  more  communicative,  he  related  the  cunning 
stratagem  by  which  Daney  had  made  it  possible  for 
Donald  to  be  separated  from  the  source  of  temptation. 

Elizabeth  was  the  first  to  comment  on  his  extraor 
dinary  revelations  when  he  appeared  to  have  finished  his 
recital. 

"The  girl  has  a  great  deal  more  character  than  I 
supposed,"  she  opined  in  her  soft,  throaty  contralto. 

"She  played  the  game  in  an  absolutely  ripping  man 
ner!"  Jane  declared  enthusiastically.  "I  had  no  idea 
she  was  possessed  of  so  much  force.  Really,  I  should 
love  to  be  kind  to  her,  if  that  were  at  all  possible 
now." 

The  Laird  smiled  but  without  animus. 

"You  had  ample  opportunity  once,  Janey,"  he  re 
minded  her.  "But  then,  of  course,  unlike  Donald  and 
myself,  you  had  no  opportunity  for  realizing  what  a 
fine,  wholesome  lass  she  is."  He  lowered  his  gaze  and 
rolled  a  bread-crumb  nervously  between  thumb  and 
forefinger.  "They  tell  me  at  the  hospital,  Nellie,"  he 
began  again  presently,  "that  her  absence  is  killing  our 
boy — that  he'll  die  if  she  doesn't  come  back.  They've 
been  whispering  to  Daney,  and  this  afternoon  he  men 
tioned  the  matter  to  me."  Three  pairs  of  eyes  bent 
upon  him;  gazes  of  mingled  curiosity  and  distress. 
"Have  you  heard  aught  of  such  talk  from  the  doctors 
and  nurses,"  he  continued,  addressing  them  collectively. 

"I  have,"  said  Mrs.  McKaye  meekly,  and  the  two  girls 
nodded.  "I  think  it's  all  poppycock,"  Jane  added. 

"It  isn't  all  poppycock,  my  dear,"  old  Hector  re- 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

buked  her.  He  rolled  another  bread-crumb.  "Andrew 
has  her  address,"  he  resumed  after  a  long  silence. 
"She's  in  New  York.  He  asked  me  to  wire  her  to  come 
immediately,  or  else  permit  him  to  wire  her  in  my 
name.  I  refused.  I  told  Daney  that  our  boy's  case  was 
in  the  hands  of  God  Almighty." 

"Oh,  Hector!"  Mrs.  McKaye  had  spoken.  There 
was  gentle  reproach  and  protest  in  her  voice,  but  she 
camouflaged  it  immediately  by  adding:  "You  poor 
dear,  to  be  called  upon  to  make  such  a  decision." 

"His  decision  was  absolutely  right,"  Elizabeth  de 
clared.  "I'd  almost  prefer  to  see  my  brother  decently 
dead  than  the  laughing-stock  of  the  town,  mai  ried  to  a 
woman  that  no  respectable  person  would  dare  receive  in 
her  home." 

Old  Hector  looked  up  in  time  to  see  Jane  nod  ap 
proval  of  her  sister's  sentiments,  and  Mrs.  McKaye, 
by  her  silence,  appeared  also  to  agree  with  them.  The 
Laird  reached  forth  and  laid  his  great  hand  over 
hers. 

"Poor  Nellie!"  he  murmured  affectionately.  " 'Tis 
hard  to  stand  between  our  love  and  duty,  is  it  not,  lass? 
By  God,  sweetheart,  I  had  to  do  it.  I  couldn't  stand 
to  see  him  wedded  wie  a  lass  that  any  man  or  woman 
could  throw  mud  at."  His  voice  shook  with  the  inten 
sity  of  his  emotion ;  his  flashing  glance  swept  the  board 
in  pitiful  defiance.  "I  have  a  right  to  protect  my 
honor  and  the  honor  of  my  house!"  he  cried  sharply. 
"Is  not  Jesus  Christ  the  embodiment  of  honor?  How 
can  He  blame  me  if  I  trust  in  His  power  and  discre 
tion.  I've  prayed  to  Him — ach,  man,  how  I've  prayed 
to  Him — to  keep  my  son  from  makin*  a  fule  o'  him 
self » 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  843 

"Now,  there  you  go  again,  Hector,  dear,"  his  wife 
soothed.  She  rose  from  her  place  at  the  table,  came 
round  to  him,  put  her  arms  around  his  great  neck,  and 
laid  her  cheek  against  his.  "An  open  confession  is  good 
for  the  soul,  they  say,  Hector.  I'm  glad  you've  taken 
us  into  your  confidence,  because  it  permits  us  to  share 
with  you  an  equal  burden  of  this  heart-breaking  de 
cision.  But  you  mustn't  feel  badly,  father.  Haven't 
I  told  you  our  boy  isn't  going  to  die  ?" 

"Do  you  really  think  so,  Nellie?"  he  pleaded  child 
ishly,  and  for  the  hundredth  time. 

"Silly  old  Hector!  I  know  so."  And  this  time  there 
was  in  her  voice  such  a  new  note  of  confidence  and  in 
her  eyes  such  a  gleam  of  triumph  that  she  actually  did 
succeed  in  comforting  him.  "Ah,  well,  God's  will  be 
done,"  he  said  piously,  and  attacked  his  dinner  again, 
while  Mrs.  McKaye  slipped  out  of  the  room  and  up 
stairs  on  some  pretext.  Once  in  her  bedroom,  she 
seized  the  extension  telephone  and  called  up  Andrew 
Daney. 

"Andrew,"  she  said  softly  but  distinctly,  "chis  is 
Nellie  McKaye  speaking.  Hector  and  I  have  been  dis 
cussing  the  advisability  of  sending  for  the  Brent  girl." 

"I — I  was  goin'  to  take  the  matter  up  with  you, 
Mrs.  McKaye.  I  had  a  talk  with  your  husband  this 
afternoon,  but  he  was  a  bit  wild " 

"He  isn't  so  wild  now,  Andrew.  He's  talked  it  over 
with  the  girls  and  me.  It's  a  terrible  alternative,  An 
drew,  but  it  simply  means  our  boy's  life  for  the  gratifi 
cation  of  our  own  selfish  family  pride " 

"Exactly!  Exactly!  And  though  I  understand  just 
how  you  feel,  Mrs.  McKaye,  after  all,  now,  it's  only  a 
nine  days'  wonder,  and  you  can't  keep  people  from  talk- 


244<  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

ing  anyhow,  unless  you  gag  the  brutes.  The  boy  has 
been  raving,  and  some  of  the  hospital  attendants  have 
talked,  and  the  gossip  is  all  over  town  again.  So  why 
not  send  for  her?  She  doesn't  have  to  marry  him  just 
because  her  presence  will  revive  his  sinking  morale " 

"Certainly  not.  My  idea,  exactly,  Andrew.  Well, 
Andrew,  suppose  you  telegraph  her ' 

"No,  no,  no !  I'll  telephone  her.  Remember,  we  have 
a  transcontinental  telephone  service  nowadays.  She 
might  not  realize  the  vital  necessity  for  speed ;  she  might 
question  her  right  to  come  if  I  tried  to  cover  the  situa 
tion  in  a  telegram.  But,  catch  her  on  the  'phone,  Mrs. 
McKay e,  and  you  can  talk  to  her  and  convince  her." 

"Oh,  that's  perfectly  splendid !  Place  the  call  for  me 
immediately,  Andrew,  please.  And — Andrew,  don't 
mention  to  Hectcr  what  I've  done.  He  wants  to  do  it, 
poor  man,  but  he  simply  cannot  bring  himself  to  the 
point  of  action." 

"Don't  I  know  it?"  Daney's  voice  rose  triumphant. 
"The  blessed  old  duffer!"  he  added.  "I'll  put  in  a  call 
for  New  York  immediately.  We  ought  to  get  it  through 
in  an  hour  or  two." 


XXXI 

IT  was  Mr.  Daney's  task  to  place  the  call  for  Nan 
Brent  in  New  York  City  and  while  he  did  not  relish 
the  assignment,  nevertheless  he  was  far  from  shrinking 
from  it.  While  the  citizens  of  Port  Agnew  had  been 
aware  for  more  than  two  years  that  transcontinental 
telephoning  was  possible,  they  knew  also  that  three 
minutes  of  conversation  for  twenty-five  dollars  tended 
to  render  silence  more  or  less  golden.  As  yet,  there 
fore,  no  one  in  Port  Agnew  had  essayed  the  great  ad 
venture;  wherefore,  Mr.  Daney  knew  that  when  he  did 
his  conversation  would  be  listened  to  eagerly  by  every 
telephone  operator  in  the  local  office  and  a  more  or  less 
garbled  report  of  same  circulated  through  the  town 
before  morning  unless  he  took  pains  to  prevent  it.  This 
he  resolved  to  do,  for  the  Tyee  Lumber  Company  owned 
the  local  telephone  company  and  it  was  quite  gener 
ally  understood  in  Port  Agnew  that  Mr.  Daney  was 
high,  low,  and  jack  and  the  game,  to  use  a  sporting 
expression. 

He  stood  by  the  telephone  a  moment  after  hanging 
up  the  receiver,  and  tugged  at  his  beard  reflectively. 

"No,"  he  murmured  presently,  "I  haven't  time  to 
motor  up-country  forty  or  fifty  miles  and  place  the  call 
in  some  town  where  we  are  not  known.  It  just  isn't  go 
ing  to  be  possible  to  smother  this  miserable  affair; 
sooner  or  later  the  lid  is  going  to  fly  off,  so  I  might  as 
well  be  game  and  let  the  tail  go  with  the  hide.  Oh, 

245 


246  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

damn  it,  damn  it !  If  I  didn't  feel  fully  responsible  for 
this  dreadful  state  of  affairs,  I  would  most  certainly 
stand  from  under!" 

He  turned  from  the  'phone  and  beheld  Mrs.  Daney, 
alert  of  countenance  and  fairly  pop-eyed  with  excite 
ment.  She  grasped  her  husband  by  the  arm. 

"You  have  a  private  line  from  the  mill  office  to  The 
Dreamerie,"  she  reminded  him.  "Have  the  call  run  in 
on  your  office  telephone,  then  call  Mrs.  McKaye,  and 
switch  her  in.  We  can  listen  on  the  office  extensions." 

Upon  his  spouse  Mr.  Daney  bent  a  look  of  profound 
contempt. 

"When  I  consider  the  loyalty,  the  love,  the  forebear- 
ance,  and  Christian  charity  that  have  been  necessary  to 
restrain  me  from  tearing  asunder  that  which  God,  in  si 
careless  moment,  joined  together,  Mary,  I'm  inclined  to 
regard  myself  as  four-fifths  superman  and  the  other 
fifth  pure  angel,"  he  declared  coldly.  "This  is  some 
thing  you're  not  in  on,  woman,  and  I  hope  the  strain 
of  your  curiosity  will  make  you  sick  for  a  week." 

He  seized  his  hat  and  fled,  leaving  his  wife  to  shed 
bitter,  scalding  tears  at  his  cruel  words.  Poor  thing! 
She  prided  herself  upon  being  the  possessor  of  a  su 
perior  brand  of  virtue  and  was  always  quick  to  take 
refuge  in  tears  when  any  one  decried  that  virtue;  in 
deed,  she  never  felt  quite  so  virtuous  as  when  she 
clothed  herself,  so  to  speak,  in  an  atmosphere  of  pa 
tient  resignation  to  insult  and  misunderstanding.  Peo 
ple  who  delude  themselves  into  the  belief  that  they  can 
camouflage  their  own  nastiness  and  weaknesses  from 
discovery  by  intelligent  persons  are  the  bane  of  exist 
ence,  and  in  his  bette .*  half  poor  Daney  had  a  heavy 
cross  to  bear. 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

He  left  the  house  wishing  he  might  dare  to  bawl 
aloud  with  anguish  at  the  knowledge  that  he  was  yoked 
for  life  to  a  woman  of  whom  he  was  secretly  ashamed; 
he  wished  he  might  dare  to  get  fearfully  intoxicated 
and  remain  in  that  condition  for  a  long  time.  In  his 
youth,  he  had  been  shy  and  retiring,  always  envying  the 
favor  which  the  ladies  appeared  to  extend  to  the  daring 
devils  of  his  acquaintance ;  consequently,  his  prenuptial 
existence  had  not  been  marked  by  any  memorable 
amourous  experiences,  for  where  other  young  men  sowed 
wild  oats  Mr.  Daney  planted  a  sweet  forget-me-not. 
As  a  married  man,  he  was  a  model  of  respectability — 
sacrosanct,  almost.  His  idea  of  worldly  happiness  con 
sisted  in  knowing  that  he  was  a  solid,  trustworthy 
business  man,  of  undoubted  years  and  discretion,  whom 
no  human  being  could  blackmail.  Now,  as  he  fled  from 
the  odor  of  respectability  he  yearned  to  wallow  in 
deviltry,  to  permit  his  soul,  so  long  cramped  in  virtue, 
to  expand  in  wickedness. 

On  his  way  down-town  he  met  young  Bert  Darrow, 
son  of  the  man  after  whom  the  adjacent  lumber-town 
had  been  christened.  Mr.  Darrow  had  recently  been 
indicted  under  the  Mann  law  for  a  jolly  little  interstate 
romance.  But  yesterday,  Mr.  Daney  had  regarded 
Bert  Darrow  as  a  wastrel  and  had  gone  a  block  out  of 
his  way  to  avoid  the  scapegrace;  to-night,  however, 
Bert  appealed  to  him  as  a  man  of  courage,  a  devil  of  a 
fellow  with  spirit,  a  lover  of  life  in  its  infinite  moods 
and  tenses,  a  lad  with  a  fine  contempt  for  public  opin 
ion  and  established  morals.  Morals?  Bah,  what  were 
they!  In  France,  Bert  Darrow  would  have  earned  for 
himself  a  wink  and  a  shrug,  as  though  to  say:  "Ah, 
these  young  fellows !  One  must  watch  out  for  the  ras- 


248  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

cals !"     In  the  United  States,  he  was  a  potential  felon. 

"Evening,  Bert,"  Mr.  Daney  saluted  him  pleasantly, 
and  paused  long  enough  to  shake  the  latter's  hand.  "I 
saw  your  ad  in  the  Seattle  P.  7.  this  morning.  You 
young  dog!  Hope  you  crawl  out  pf  that  mess  all 
right." 

"C'est  la  guerre"  Bert  murmured  nonchalantly. 
"Thanks,  awfully." 

Mr.  Daney  felt  better  after  that  brief  interview.  He 
had  clasped  hands  with  sin  and  felt  now  like  a  human 
being. 

He  went  directly  to  the  local  telephone  office  and 
placed  his  New  York  call  with  the  chief  operator,  after 
which  he  sat  in  the  manager's  office  and  smoked  until  ten 
o'clock,  when  New  York  reported  "Ready !" 

"You  young  ladies,"  said  Mr.  Daney,  addressing  the 
two  young  women  on  duty,  "may  take  a  walk  around  the 
block.  Port  Agnew  will  not  require  any  service  for  the 
next  twenty  minutes." 

They  assimilated  his  hint,  and  when  he  was  alone 
with  the  chief  operator  Mr.  Daney  ordered  her  to  switch 
the  New  York  call  on  to  Mrs.  McKaye  at  The  Dream- 
erie.  Followed  ten  minutes  of  "Ready,  Chicago."  "All 
right,  New  York.  Put  your  party  on  the  line !" — a  lot 
of  persistent  buzzing  and  sudden  silence.  Then :  "Hello, 
Port  Agnew." 

Mr.  Daney,  listening  on  the  extension  in  the  office  of 
the  manager,  recognized  the  voice  instantly  as  Nan 
Brent's. 

"Go  on,  Mrs.  McKaye,"  he  ordered.  "That's  the 
Brent  girl  calling  Port  Agnew." 

"Hello,  Miss  Brent.  This  is  Donald  McI'Iaye's 
mother  speaking.  Can  you  hear  me  distinctly?" 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

"Yes,  Mrs.  McKaye,  quite  distinctly." 

"Donald  is  ill  with  typhoid  fever.  We  are  afraid  he 
is  not  going  to  get  well,  Miss  Brent.  The  doctors  say 
that  is  because  he  does  not  want  to  live.  Do  you  under 
stand  why  this  should  be?" 

"Yes ;  I  think  I  understand  perfectly." 

"Will  you  come  back  to  Port  Agnew  and  help  save 
him?  We  all  think  you  can  do  it,  Miss  Brent.  The 
doctors  say  you  are  the  only  one  that  can  save  him." 
There  was  a  moment  of  hesitation.  "His  family  desires 
this,  then?"  "Would  I  telephone  across  the  continent 
if  we  did  not?" 

"I'll  come,  Mrs.  McKaye — for  his  sake  and  yours.  I 
suppose  you  understand  why  I  left  Port  Agnew.  If  not, 
I  will  tell  you.  It  was  for  his  sake  and  that  of  his 
family." 

"Thank  you.  I  am  aware  of  that,  Miss  Brent.  Ah — 
of  course  you  will  be  amply  reimbursed  for  your  time 
and  trouble,  Miss  Brent.  When  he  is  well — when  all 
danger  of  a  relapse  has  passed — I  think  you  realize, 
Miss  Brent,  all  of  the  impossible  aspects  of  this  unfor 
tunate  affair  which  render  it  necessary  to  reduce  mat 
ters  strictly  to  a  business  basis." 

"Quite,  dear  Mrs.  McKaye.  I  shall  return  to  Port, 
Agnew — on  business — starting  to-morrow  morning.  If 
I  arrive  in  time,  I  shall  do  my  best  to  save  your  son, 
although  to  do  so  I  shall  probably  have  to  promise  not 
to  leave  him  again.  Of  course,  I  realize  that  you  do 
not  expect  me  to  keep  that  promise." 

"Oh,  I'm  so  sorry,  my  dear  girl,  that  I  cannot  say 
'No'  to  that.  But  then,  since  you  realized,  in  the  first 
place,  how  impossible " 

"Good-night.     I  must  pack  my  trunk." 


250  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

"Just  a  minute,  my  girl,"  Andrew  Daney  interrupted. 
"Daney  speaking.  When  you  get  to  Chicago,  call  up 
the  C.  M.  St.  P.  station.  I'll  have  a  special  train 
waiting  there  for  you." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Daney.  I'm  sorry  you  cannot 
charter  an  airplane  for  me  from  New  York  to  Chicago. 
Good-night,  and  tell  Donald  for  me  whatever  you 
please." 

"Send  him  a  telegram,"  Daney  pleaded.  "Good-by." 
He  turned  to  the  chief  operator  and  looked  her  square 
ly  in  the  eyes.  "The  Laird  likes  discreet  young  women," 
he  announced  meaningly,  "and  rewards  discretion.  If 
you're  not  the  highest  paid  chief  operator  in  the  state 
of  Washington  from  this  on,  I'm  a  mighty  poor  guess- 
er." 

The  girl  smiled  at  him,  and  suddenly,  for  the  first 
time  in  all  his  humdrum  existence,  Romance  gripped  Mr. 
Daney.  He  was  riotously  happy — and  courageous ! 
He  thrust  a  finger  under  the  girl's  chin  and  tilted  it  in 
a  most  familiar  manner,  at  the  same  time  pinching  it 
with  his  thumb. 

"Young  woman,"  he  cautioned  her,  "don't  you  ever 
be  prim  and  smug !  And  don't  you  ever  marry  any  man 
until  you're  perfectly  wild  to  do  it ;  then,  were  he  the 
devil  himself,  follow  your  own  natural  impulses."  He 
let  go  her  chin  and  shook  his  forefinger  between  her 
eyes.  "I'd  rather  be  happy  than  virtuous,"  the  amaz 
ing  man  continued.  "The  calm  placidity  that  comes  of 
a  love  of  virtue  and  the  possession  of  it  makes  me  sick ! 
Such  people  are  dull  and  stupid.  They  play  hide-and- 
seek  with  themselves,  I  tell  you.  Suspicious  little  souls 
peering  out  of  windows  and  shocked  to  death  at  every 
thing  they  see  or  hear — condemn  everything  they  do  not 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  251 

understand.  Damn  it,  girl,  give  me  the  virtue  that's 
had  to  fight  like  the  devil  to  stay  on  its  feet — the  kind 
that's  been  scratched  and  has  had  the  corners  knocked 
off  in  contact  with  the  world  and  still  believes  that  God 
made  man  to  his  own  image  and  likeness.  I  tell  you, 
the  Lord  knew  what  he  was  about  when  he  invented  the 
devil.  If  he  hadn't,  we'd  all  be  so  nasty-nice  nobody 
could  trust  the  other  fellow  further'n  you  can  throw  a 
bear  up-hill  by  the  tail.  I  tell  you,  young  woman,  sin 
is  a  great  institution.  Why,  just  think  of  all  the  fun 
we  have  in  life — we  good  people — forgiving  our  neigh 
bor  his  trespasses  as  he  does  not  forgive  us  for  tres 
passing  against  him." 

And  with  this  remarkable  statement,  Mr.  Daney  be 
took  himself  to  his  home.  Mrs.  Daney,  a  trifle  red  and 
watery  about  the  eyes  and  nose,  sat  up  in  bed  and  de 
manded  to  be  informed  what  had  kept  him  down-town 
so  late. 

"Would  you  sleep  any  better  if  you  knew?"  he  de 
manded. 

She  said  she  would  not. 

"Then,  woman,  resign  yourself  to  the  soft  embrace 
of  Bacchus,  the  god  of  sleep,"  he  replied,  mixed  meta 
phorically.  "As  for  me,  my  dear,  I'm  all  talked  out !" 


XXXII 

DONALD,  trembling  on  the  brink  of  Beyond,  not 
from  his  disease  but  from  the  exhaustion  incident 
to  it,  was  conscious  when  his  father  entered  the  room 
and  sat  down  beside  his  bed. 

"Well,  lad,"  he  greeted  the  boy  with  an  assumption 
of  heartiness  he  was  far  from  feeling,  "and  have  you  no 
good  news  for  your  old  father  this  morning.  Tell  me 
you're  feeling  better,  lad." 

"Read  the  telegram,"  Donald  whispered,  and  old 
Hector,  seeing  a  telegram  lying  on  the  bed,  picked  it  up. 
It  was  dated  from  New  York  that  morning,  and  the 
Laird  read : 

Due  Port  Agnew  Friday  morning.  Remember  the  last 
line  in  the  fairy-tale.  Love  and  kisses  from  your 

SWEETHEART. 

"God  bless  my  soul!"  The  Laird   almost  shouted. 

"Who  the  devil  is  'Sweetheart'?" 

"Only — have  one — Scotty.    Sorry — for  you — but  do 

you — happen  to  know — last  line — fairy-tale?  Tell  you. 

'And    so — they — were    married — and    lived — happy — 

ever — after." 

Fell  a  long  silence.     Then,  from  The  Laird: 
"And  you're  going  to  wait  for — her,  my  son?" 
"Certainly.     Foolish  die — now.      I'll  try — to  wait. 

Try  hard." 

252 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  253 

He  was  still  trying  when  Nan  Brent  stepped  off  the 
special  train  at  Port  Agnew  on  Friday  morning.  She 
was  heavily  veiled,  and  because  of  the  distinctly  metro 
politan  cut  of  her  garments,  none  recognized  her.  With 
her  child  trotting  at  her  side,  she  walked  swiftly  to  the 
company  hospital,  and  the  nurse,  who  had  been  watch 
ing  for  her,  met  her  at  the  door.  The  girl  raised  a 
white,  haggard  face,  and  her  sad  blue  eyes  asked  the 
question.  The  nurse  nodded,  led  her  down  the  hall, 
pointed  to  the  door  of  Donald's  room,  and  then  picked 
up  Nan's  child  and  carried  him  off  to  the  hospital 
kitchen  for  a  cookie. 

The  outcast  of  Port  Agnew  entered.  Hector  Mc- 
Kaye  sat  by  the  bed,  gazing  upon  his  son,  who  lay  with 
closed  eyes,  so  still  and  white  and  emaciated  that  a  sud 
den  fear  rose  in  Nan's  mind.  Had  she  arrived  too 
late? 

The  Laird  turned  and  gazed  at  her  an  instant  with 
dull  eyes,  then  sprang  to  meet  her. 

"Well,  lass,"  he  demanded,  and  there  was  a  belliger 
ent  and  resentful  note  in  his  voice,  "is  this  playing  the 
game?"  She  nodded,  her  blurred  eyes  fixed  upon  his 
son,  and  old  Hector's  face  softened  with  a  tenderness 
almost  paternal.  "Then,"  he  whispered,  "you  didn't 
mean  that — about  the  last  line  of  the  fairy-tale?" 

Her  head  moved  in  negation,  but  she  did  not  look 
at  him.  She  had  eyes  only  for  the  wreck  of  the  man 
she  loved. 

"I  heard  you  needed  me — to  save  him,  Mr.  McKaye. 
So  I'm  here — to  save  him,  if  I  can — for  you — nothing 
more." 

He  bowed  to  her,  deeply,  humbly,  as  if  she  were  in 
truth  the  grandest  lady  in  the  land,  then  left  the  room 


254.  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

hurriedly.  Nan  approached  the  bed  and  leaned  over 
Donald,  gazing  at  him  for  several  minutes,  for  he  was 
not  as  yet  aware  of  her  presence.  Suddenly  she  com 
menced  to  sing  softly  the  song  he  loved:  "Carry  Me 
Back  to  Old  Virginny,"  and  her  hand  stole  into  his.  The 
little  grin  that  crept  over  his  bearded  face  was  ghastly ; 
after  the  first  bar,  she  bent  and  laid  her  cool  cheek 
against  his. 

"Well,  old  shipmate,"  she  murmured  in  his  ear,  "I'm 
back." 

"'God's  in— his  heaven/"  he  whispered.  "  'All's 
well — with  the — world.'  " 


XXXIII 

FROM  the  company  hospital,  The  Laird  went 
straight  to  his  general  manager's  office.  Enter 
ing,  he  strode  to  Daney's  desk  and  transfixed  that 
harassed  individual  with  an  accusing  finger. 

"Andrew,  this  is  your  work,  is  it  not?" 

Mr.  Daney's  heart  skipped  a  beat,  but  he  remem 
bered  this  was  Friday  morning.  So  he  decided  not  to 
be  foolish  and  spar  for  time  by  asking  The  Laird  what 
work  he  referred  to.  Also,  having  read  somewhere  that, 
in  battle,  the  offensive  frequently  wins — the  defensive 
never — he  glared  defiantly  at  The  Laird  and  growled. 

"Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?"  His 
demeanor  appeared  to  say :  "This  is  my  work,  and  I'm 
proud  of  it." 

To  Daney's  profound  amazement,  The  Laird  smiled 
benignantly  and  thrust  out  his  hand,  which  Mr.  Daney 
shook  gingerly,  as  one  might  a  can  of  nitroglycerin. 

"I  thank  you  more  than  you  will  ever  realize,  An 
drew,  for  taking  this  matter  out  of  my  hands.  I  left 
the  decision  up  to  the  Almighty  and  evidently  he  in 
spired  you  to  disobey  me  and  save  the  day— without 
compromising  me." 

"Pooh !  That's  the  easiest  thing  I  do."  Mr.  Daney's 
courage  had  returned  with  a  rush.  "For  heaven's  sake, 
don't  talk  about  it,  sir.  I  placed  a  call  for  the 
girl  on  the  telephone — at  your  expense.  Yes,  sir;  I 
talked  with  her  clear  across  the  continent,  and  before 

255 


256  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

she  even  started  from  New  York,  it  was  understood  that 
she  is  to  jilt  Donald  the  minute  the  doctors  pronounce 
him  strong  enough  to  stand  jilting." 

"She  told  me,  practically,  the  same  thing.  Oh,  An 
drew,  Andrew,  my  boy,  this  is  bully  work!  Bully! 
Bully!" 

Mr.  Daney  replied  to  this  encomium  with  a  depreca 
tory  shrug  and  hoped  The  Laird  would  never  ask  him 
who  had  made  the  bargain.  Thus  far,  he  flattered  him 
self,  he  had  not  strayed  from  the  straight  and  narrow 
path  of  strict  veracity,  and  he  hoped  he  would  not  have 
to.  To  obviate  this,  he  decided  to  get  rid  of  The  Laird 
immediately ;  so  he  affected  embarrassment ;  fussed  with 
the  pile  of  mail  on  his  desk,  and  growled: 

"All  right,  boss.  If  you're  satisfied,  I  am.  I  haven't 
been  able  to  sleep  very  well  since  I  started  mixing  in 
your  family  affairs,  and  without  sleep  a  man  cannot 
hold  up  his  job.  I've  got  a  lot  of  work  to  do,  and  I 
cannot  have  any  idle,  interfering  fellows  stampeding 
round  my  office;  so  I  suggest  that  you  run  up  to  The 
Drcamerie  to  break  the  good  news  to  your  poor  wife  and 
the  girls,  and  let  me  get  something  done." 

"All  right,  Andrew;  I'll  go  in  a  minute.  Er — ah — 
you're  certain,  Andrew,  the  girl  understands  quite  thor 
oughly  that  I  haven't  had  a  thing  to  do  with  bringing 
her  back  to  Port  Agnew?"  The  Laird  smote  the  desk 
resolutely;  he  desired  to  be  absolutely  certain  of  his 
ground. 

Mr.  Daney  looked  up  with  a  slight  frown. 

"I'll  answer  your  question  with  another.  Have  you 
seen  and  talked  with  Nan  Brent  this  morning?" 

"Yes.    I  did — the  minute  she  entered  Donald's  room." 

"And  you  demanded  a  show-down  then  and  there?" 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  257 

Parenthetically  it  may  be  stated  that  Mr.  Daney's  inti 
mate  knowledge  of  The  Laird's  character  prompted  this 
question.  He  was  certain  of  an  affirmative  reply. 

"I  did." 

"And  her  answer  was  satisfactory?" 

"Absolutely !" 

"So  I  judged  from  the  fact  that  you  shook  hands 
with  me  upon  entering  my  office.  I  had  expected  noth 
ing  more  nor  less  than  instant  dismissal  .  .  .  Well, 
since  you  desire  the  girl's  testimony  confirmed,  I  repeat 
that  she  came  out  here  on  the  distinct  understanding 

O 

that  Donald's  family  had  not  receded  from  its  original 
position.  This  is  a  business  trip,  pure  and  simple,  in 
so  far  as  the  McKaye  family  is  concerned,  although  I 
grant  you  there  is  a  heap  of  sentiment  on  Nan's  part 
— at  least  sufficient  to  persuade  her  to  do  anything  for 
the  boy's  sake.  She  places  his  welfare  above  her  own." 

The  Laird  nodded. 

"The  girl  is  capable  of  doing  the  most  unexpected 
^things,  Andrew.  I  really  think  she'll  play  the  game. 
When  she  told  me  what  her  intentions  were,  I  believe  she 
stated  the  absolute  truth." 

"Well,  let  us  hope  she  doesn't  change  them,  sir.  Re 
member,  she  has  no  more  intention  of  marrying  him 
this  morning  than  she  had  when  she  fled  from  Port 
Agnew.  I  was  certain  of  that  when  listening  to  her  on 
the  telephone  the  other  night.  However,  sir,  I  want  to 
go  on  record,  here  and  now,  as  disclaiming  responsibility 
for  anything  that  may  occur  hereafter.  I  am  not  the 
seventh  son  of  a  seventh  son,  and  neither  was  I  born 
with  a  caul.  Hence,  I  do  not  pretend  to  foretell  future 
events  with  any  degree  of  exactitude.  I  simply  guaran 
tee  you,  sir,  that  the  girl  realizes  that  you  have  had 


258  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

nothing  whatsoever,  directly  or  indirectly,  to  do  with 
the  request  for  her  return.  Also,  I  give  you  my  word 
of  honor  that  I  have  not  made  her  a  single  promise — 
directly  or  indirectly." 

"Well,  I  am  relieved.  I  dreaded  the  thought  that  I 
might  be  compromised — indirectly,  for,  as  you  well 
know,  Andrew,  I  have  a  repugnance  to  asking  favors 
from  anybody  to  whom  I  am  not  prepared  to  grant 
them.  My  son  is  my  chief  happiness.  Now,  if  I  were 
to  ask  her  to  save  my  happiness,  while  at  the  same  time 
reserving  the  right  to  deny  the  girl  hers — well,  thank 
God,  I'm  saved  that  embarrassment!  Thanks  to  you, 
you  fox !"  he  added. 

"Bless  my  wicked  heart!  I'm  glad  youVe  gone  and 
that  I'm  out  of  it  so  easy,"  the  general  manager 
soliloquized,  as  the  door  closed  behind  The  Laird. 

He  reached  for  the  telephone  and  called  Mrs.  Mc- 
Ivaye  at  The  Dreamerie. 

"Your  husband  is  on  his  way  home,  Mrs.  McKaye," 
he  advised  her.  "The  girl  is  here,  The  Laird  has  met 
her  and  talked  with  her  and  is  quite  happy  over  the 
situation.  However,  I  want  to  warn  you  that  you  will 
avoid  unpleasantness  by  keeping  from  him  the  fact 
that  you  asked  the  Brent  girl  to  come  back  to  Port 
Agnew.  He  thinks  I  did  that,  and  I  have  not  seen  fit, 
for  reasons  of  my  own,  to  deny  it." 

"Wh}r,  I  asked  you  not  to  tell  him,  Andrew,"  she  re 
plied,  surprised  that  he  should  forget  it. 

"I  know.  But  you  had  planned  to  tell  him  yourself 
if,  after  the  girl  had  arrived,  you  discovered  he  was 
secretly  pleased  that  she  had  come." 

"Yes;  that  is  true.     However,  since  you  say  Hector 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  259 

is  quite  pleased  with  the  situation,  why  should  I  not 
tell  him,  Andrew?" 

"I  have  a  suspicion*  the  news  will  trouble  him.  He  is 
quite  willing  to  accept  of  the  girl's  services,  as  it  were, 
but  not  at  the  behest  of  any  member  of  his  family.  Bet 
ter  hear  what  he  has  to  say  on  the  subject  before  you 
commit  yourself,  Mrs.  McKaye." 

"Oh,  I  think  I  can  be  depended  upon  to  manage  Hec 
tor,"  she  replied  confidently,  and  hung  up,  for  already 
through  the  window  she  could  see  The  Laird's  car  tak 
ing  the  grade  up  Tyee  Head.  He  arrived  a  few  minutes 
later  and  entered  smilingly,  rubbing  his  hands  as  indic 
ative  of  his  entire  satisfaction  with  the  universe  as 
constituted  that  morning. 

"My  dears,  I  have  wonderful  news  for  you!"  he  an 
nounced. 

Elizabeth,  warned  by  her  mother  of  the  impending 
announcement,  and  already  in  the  latter's  confidence  re 
garding  the  long-distance  conversation  with  Nan  Brent, 
interrupted  him.  She  was  a  born  actress. 

"Oh,  do  tell  us  quickly,  daddy  dear,"  she  gushed,  and 
flew  to  throw  her  arms  round  his  neck.  Over  his  shoul 
der  she  winked  at  Jane  and  her  mother  and  grimaced 
knowingly. 

"Donald's  going  to  pull  through.  The  doctors  feel 
certain  he'll  take  in  the  slack  on  his  life-line,  now  that 
the  Brent  girl  has  suddenly  turned  up.  In  fact,  the 
lad  has  been  holding  his  own  since  he  received  a  tele 
gram  from  her  some  days  back.  I  didn't  tell  you  about 
that,  my  dears,  not  being  desirous  of  worrying  you; 
and  since  it  was  no  doings  of  mine,  I  saw  it  could  not  be 
helped,  and  we'd  have  to  make  the  best  of  it." 

"Oh,   daddy!     How   could   you?      That's   perfectly 


260  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

dreadful  news!"  the  artful  Elizabeth  cried,  while  her 
mother  raised  her  eyes  resignedly  upward  and  clasped 
her  hands  so  tightly  that  they  trembled.  The  Laird 
thought  his  wife  sought  comfort  from  above ;  had  he 
known  that  she  had  just  delivered  a  sincere  vote  of 
thanks,  he  would  not  have  hugged  her  to  his  heart,  as 
he  forthwith  proceeded  to  do. 

"Now,  now,  Nellie,  my  dear,"  he  soothed  her,  "it's  all 
for  the  best.  Don't  CTOSS  your  bridges  before  you  come 
to  them.  Wait  till  I  tell  you  everything.  That  fox, 
Daney,  had  the  common  sense  to  call  the  girl  on  the 
telephone  and  explain  the  situation;  he  induced  her  to 
come  out  here  and  tease  that  soft-hearted  moonstruck 
son  of  ours  back  to  life.  And  when  Donald's  strong 
enough  to  stand  alone — by  Jupiter,  that's  exactly  how 
he's  going  to  stand! — We're  not  the  slightest  bit  com 
promised,  my  dears.  The  McKaye  family  is  absolutely 
in  the  clear.  The  girl  has  done  this  solely  for  Don 
ald's  sake." 

"Hector  McKaye,"  Jane  declared,  "you've  really  got 
to  do  something  very  handsome  for  Andrew  Daney." 

"Yes,  indeed,"  Elizabeth  cooed. 

"Dear,  capable,  faithful  Andrew!"  Mrs.  McKaye 
sighed. 

"Ah,  he's  a  canny  lad,  is  Andrew,"  old  Hector  de 
clared  happily.  "He  took  smart  care  not  to  com 
promise  me,  for  well  he  knows  my  code.  When  I  re 
jected  his  suggestion  that  I  send  for  the  lass,  Andrew 
knew  why  without  asking  foolish  questions.  Well,  he 
realized  that  if  I  should  ask  her  to  come  and  save  my 
son,  I  would  not  be  unfair  enough  to  tell  her  later  that 
she  was  not  a  fit  wife  for  that  son.  As  a  matter  o' 
manly  principle,  I  would  have  had  to  withdraw  my 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  261 

opposition,  and  Donald  could  wed  her  if  he  liked  and 
with  my  blessing,  for  all  the  bitter  cost.  I  did  not  build 
The  Dreamerie  with  the  thought  that  Donald  would 
bring  a  wife  like  this  Brent  lass  home  to  live  in  it,  but 
— God  be  thanked! — the  puir  bairn  loves  him  too  well 
to  ruin  him " 

He  broke  off,  wiping  his  eyes,  moist  now  with  the 
pressure  of  his  emotions,  and  while  he  was  wiping  them, 
Mrs.  McKaye  and  her  daughters  exchanged  frightened 
glances.  Elizabeth's  penchant  for  ill-timed  humor  dis 
appeared;  she  stood,  alert  and  awed,  biting  her  lip. 
Jane's  eyebrows  went  up  in  quick  warning  to  her 
mother,  who  paled  and  flushed  alternately.  The  latter 
understood  now  why  Andrew  Daney  had  taken  the 
precaution  to  warn  her  against  the  danger  of  conjugal 
confidences  in  the  matter  of  Nan  Brent;  devoutly  she 
wished  she  had  had  the  common  sense  to  have  left 
those  delicate  negotiations  entirely  in  the  hands  of 
dear,  capable,  faithful  Andrew,  for,  delicate  as  they 
had  been,  she  realized  now,  when  it  was  too  late,  that  in 
all  probability  Mr.  Daney,  although  a  mere  man,  would 
have  concluded  them  without  compromising  the  McKaye 
family.  Surely  he  would  have  had  the  good  taste  to  as 
sure  Nan  that  he  was  acting  entirely  upon  his  own 
initiative. 

.On  the  instant,  Mrs.  McKaye  hated  the  unfortunate 
general  manager.  She  told  herself  that,  had  he  been 
possessed  of  the  brains  of  a  chipmunk,  he  would  have 
pointed  out  to  her  the  danger  of  her  course;  that  he 
had  not  done  so  was  proof  that  the  craven  had  feared 
to  compromise  himself.  He  had  made  a  cat's-paw  of  her, 
that's  what  he  had  done !  He  had  taken  advantage  of 
a  momentary  lack  of  caution — the  result  of  her  im- 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

petuous  mother  love.  Ah,  what  a  blockhead  the  man 
was,  not  to  have  warned  her  of  the  diplomatic  dangers 
she  was  risking!  At  that  moment,  placid  Nellie  Mc- 
Kaye  could  have  shrieked  with  fury ;  it  would  have  been 
a  relief  to  her  if  she  could  have  stuck  her  hatpin  in  that 
monumental  chucklehead,  Daney.  Like  so  many  of  her 
sex,  the  good  lady's  code  of  sportsmanship  was  a  curi 
ous  one,  to  say  the  least.  It  had  not  been  prudence  but 
an  instinctive  desire  to  protect  her  son  that  had  moved 
her  to  be  careful  when  begging  Nan  to  return  to  Port 
Agnew,  to  indicate  that  this  request  predicated  no 
retirement  from  the  resolute  stand  which  the  family 
had  taken  against  the  latter' s  alliance  with  Donald.  In 
a  hazy,  indefinite  way,  she  had  realized  the  importance 
of  nullifying  any  tendency  on  her  part  to  compromise 
herself  or  her  family  by  the  mere  act  of  telephoning  to 
Nan,  and  with  the  unintentional  brutality  of  a  not  very 
intelligent,  tactless  woman  she  had  taken  this  means  of 
protection. 

Curiously  enough,  it  had  not  occurred  to  her  until 
this  moment  that  she  had  done  something  shameful  and 
cruel  and  stupid  and  unwomanly.  She  shriveled  men 
tally  in  the  contemplation  of  it.  Not  until  her  husband 
had  so  unexpectedly  revealed  to  her  a  hitherto  hidden 
facet  of  his  character — his  masculine  code  of  an  eye 
for  an  eye  and  a  tooth  for  a  tooth — did  she  realize 
how  dreadfully  she  had  blundered.  She  realized  now 
that,  without  having  given  the  slightest  thought  to  the 
commission  of  an  act  unworthy  of  her  womanhood,  she 
had  acted  because,  to  her,  the  end  appeared  to  justify 
the  means ;  never  given  to  self -analysis,  she  had  merely 
followed  the  imperative  call  of  her  mother  love  to  the 
point  where  nothing  mattered  save  results. 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  263 

She  looked  up  tearfully  at  The  Laird.  For  thirty- 
odd  years  she  had  lived  with  this  strange  soul ;  yet  she 
had  not  known  until  now  how  fierce  was  his  desire  for 
independence,  how  dear  to  him  was  his  passion  for  self- 
respect.  Even  now,  she  found  it  difficult  to  understand 
why,  even  if  he  had  been  able  to  subdue  his  pride  to 
the  point  of  asking  Nan  Brent  to  preserve  life  in  that 
which  was  dearer  to  him  than  his  own  life,  his  passion 
for  always  giving  value  received  should  preclude  bar 
gaining  with  the  girl.  It  was  plain  to  her,  therefore, 
that  her  husband  could  never  love  their  son  as  his 
mother  loved  him,  else,  in  a  matter  of  life  or  death,  he 
would  not  have  paused  to  consider  the  effect  on  himself 
of  any  action  that  might  safeguard  his  son's  existence. 
She  knew  what  he  had  thought  when  Daney  first  pro 
posed  the  matter  to  him.  That  sort  of  thing  wasn't 
"playing  the  game."  Poor,  troubled  soul !  She  did  not 
know  that  he  was  capable  of  playing  any  game  to  the 
finish,  even  though  every  point  scored  against  him 
should  burn  like  a  branding-iron. 

The  Laird,  noting  her  great  distress,  held  her  fondly 
in  his  arms  and  soothed  her;  manlike,  he  assumed  that 
she  wept  because  her  heart  was  overflowing  with  joy. 
For  half  an  hour  he  chatted  with  her ;  then,  with  a  light 
step  and  a  cheerful  "Good-by,  Nellie,  wife,"  he  entered 
his  automobile  and  drove  back  to  town. 

His  departure  was  the  signal  for  Jane  and  Elizabeth 
to  rally  to  their  mother's  side  and  inaugurate  a  plan  of 
defense. 

"Well,  mother  dear,"  Elizabeth  opined  calmly,  "it 
appears  that  you've  spilled  the  beans." 

"What  a  funny  old  popsy-wops  it  is,  to  be  sure!" 
Jane  chirped.  "It's  fine  to  be  such  a  grand  old  sport, 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

but  so  dreadfully  inconvenient !  Beth,  can  you  imagine 
what  father  McKay e  would  say  if  he  only  knew?" 

"I  wouldn't  mind  the  things  he'd  say.  The  things 
he'd  do  would  be  apt  to  linger  longest  in  our  mem 
ories." 

"Oh,  my  dears,  what  shall  I  do  ?"  poor  Mrs.  McKaye 
quavered. 

"Stand  pat,  should  necessity  ever  arise,  and  put  the 
buck  up  to  Mr.  Daney,"  the  slangy  Elizabeth  suggested 
promptly.  "He  has  warned  you  not  to  confess  to  fa 
ther,  hasn't  he?  Now,  why  did  he  do  this?  Answer: 
Because  he  realized  that  if  dad  should  learn  that  you 
telephoned  this  odious  creature  from  the  Sawdust  Pile, 
the  head  of  our  clan  would  consider  himself  compro 
mised — bound  by  the  action  of  a  member  of  his  clan,  as 
it  were.  Then  we'll  have  a  wedding  and  after  the  wed 
ding  we'll  all  be  thrown  out  of  The  Dreamerie  to  make 
room  for  Master  Don  and  his  consort.  So,  it  appears 
to  me,  since  Mr.  Daney  has  warned  you  not  to  tell, 
mother  dear,  that  he  cannot  afford  to  tell  on  you  him 
self — no,  not  even  to  save  his  own  skin." 

"You  do  not  understand,  Elizabeth,"  Mrs.  McKaye 
sobbed.  "It  isn't  because  that  stupid  Andrew  cares  a 
snap  of  his  finger  for  us;  it's  because  he's  devoted  to 
Hector  and  doesn't  want  him  worried  or  made  un 
happy." 

And  in  this  observation,  it  is  more  than  probable  that 
the  lady  spoke  more  truly  than  she  realized. 

"Oh,  well,  if  that's  the  case,  it's  all  as  clear  as  rnud !" 
Jane  cried  triumphantly.  "If  the  worst  should  ever 
come  to  the  worst,  Mr.  Daney  will  lie  like  a  gentleman 
and — why,  he  has  already  done  so,  silly !  Of  course  he 
has,  and  it's  rather  gallant  of  him  to  do  it,  I  think." 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  265 

"He's  an  imbecile,  and  why  Hector  has  employed  h?m 
all  these  years — why  he  trusts  him  so  implicitly,  Pm 
sure  I  am  at  a  loss  to  comprehend."  Mrs.  McKaye 
complained  waspishly. 

"Dear,  capable,  faithful  Andrew!"  Elizabeth  mim 
icked  her  mother's  speech  earlier  in  the  day.  "Cheer 
up,  ma !  Cherries  are  ripe."  She  snapped  her  fingers, 
swayed  her  lithe  body,  and  undulated  gracefully  to  the 
piano,  where  she  brought  both  hands  down  on  the  keys 
with  a  crash,  and  played  ragtime  with  feverish  fury  for 
five  minutes.  Then,  her  impish  nature  asserting  itself, 
she  literally  smashed  out  the  opening  bars  of  the 
Wedding  March  from  Lohengrin,  and  shouted  with  glee 
when  her  mother,  a  finger  in  each  ear,  fled  from  the 
room. 


XXXIV 

MR.  DANEY  worked  through  a  stack  of  mail  witK 
his  stenographer,  dismissed  her,  and,  in  the 
privacy  of  his  sanctum,  lighted  his  pipe  and  proceeded 
to  mend  his  fences.  In  the  discretion  of  the  chief  opera 
tor  at  the  telephone  exchange,  he  had  great  confidence ; 
in  that  of  Mrs.  McKaye,  none  at  all.  He  believed  that 
the  risk  of  having  the  secret  leak  out  through  Nan  her 
self  was  a  negligible  one,  and,  of  course  (provided  he 
did  not  talk  in  his  sleep)  the  reason  for  Nan's  return 
was  absolutely  safe  with  him.  Indeed,  the  very  fact 
that  The  Laird  had  demanded  and  received  an  explana 
tion  from  the  girl  would  indicate  to  Nan  that  Mrs.  Mc 
Kaye  had  acted  on  her  own  initiative ;  hence,  Nan  would, 
in  all  probability,  refrain  from  disclosing  this  fact  to 
The  Laird  in  any  future  conversations. 

Reasoning  further,  Daney  concluded  there  would  be 
no  future  conversations.  The  Laird,  following  his  usual 
custom  of  refraining  from  discussing  a  subject  already 
settled  to  his  satisfaction,  could  be  depended  upon  to 
avoid  a  discussion  of  any  kind  with  Nan  Brent  in  future, 
for  such  discussions  would  not  be  to  his  interest,  and 
he  was  singularly  adept  in  guarding  that  interest. 

His  cogitations  were  interrupted  by  a  telephone- 
call  from  Mrs.  McKaye.  The  good  souFs  first  gust  of 
resentment  having  passed,  she  desired  to  thank  him  for 
his  timely  warning  and  to  assure  him  that,  on  the  sub 
ject  of  that  transcontinental  telephone-conversation 

266 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  267 

she  and  her  daughters  could  be  depended  upon  to  remain 
as  silent  as  the  Sphinx. 

This  information  relieved  Mr.  Daney  greatly.  "Af 
ter  all,"  he  confided  to  the  cuspidor,  "it  is  up  to  the  girl 
whether  we  fish  or  cut  bait.  But  then,  what  man  in  his 
senses  can  trust  a  woman  to  stay  put.  Females  are 
always  making  high  dives  into  shoal  water,  and  those 
tactless  McKaye  women  are  going  to  smear  everything 
up  yet.  You  wait  and  see." 

The  longer  Mr.  Daney  considered  this  situation,  the 
more  convinced  did  he  become  that  mischief  was  brew 
ing.  Did  not  periods  of  seraphic  calm  always  precede 
a  tornado?  In  the  impending  social  explosion,  a  few 
hard  missiles  would  most  certainly  come  his  way,  and  in 
a  sudden  agony  of  apprehension  and  shame  because  he 
had  told  The  Laird  a  half-truth,  he  sprang  to  his  feef, 
resolved  to  seek  old  Hector,  inform  him  that  Mrs.  Mc 
Kaye  had  compromised  the  family,  and  thus  enable 
him  to  meet  the  issue  like  a  gentleman.  But  this  de 
cision  was  succeeded  by  the  reflection  that  perhaps  this 
action  would  merely  serve  to  precipitate  a  situation  that 
might  not  be  evolved  in  the  ordinary  course  of  affairs. 
Furthermore,  he  could  not  afford  to  betray  Mrs.  Mc 
Kaye  on  the  mere  suspicion  that,  sooner  or  later,  she 
would  betray  herself,  for  this  would  savor  of  too  much 
anxiety  to  save  his  own  skin  at  her  expense.  "I'm  a 
singularly  unhappy  old  duffer,"  he  groaned  and  kicked 
his  inoff ending  waste-basket  across  the  office.  "The  fe 
males  !  The  mischief-making,  bungling,  thoughtless, 
crazy  females !  There  are  millions  of  wonderful,  an 
gelic  women  in  this  terrible  world,  but  what  I  want  to 
know  is:  Where  the  Sam  Hill  do  they  hide  them 
selves?" 


XXXV 

NAN  did  not  remain  at  the  hospital  more  than  fif 
teen  minutes.  She  was  ill  at  ease  there ;  it  was  no 
comfort  to  her  to  gaze  upon  the  pallid,  wasted  face  of 
the  man  she  loved  when  she  realized  that,  by  her  pres 
ence  here,  she  was  constituting  herself  a  party  to  a 
heart-breaking  swindle,  and  must  deny  herself  the  joy 
of  gazing  upon  that  same  beloved  countenance  when, 
later,  it  should  be  glowing  with  health  and  youth  and 
high  hopes.  He  was  too  weak  to  speak  more  than  a 
few  words  to  her.  The  faintest  imaginable  pressure  of 
his  hand  answered  the  pressure  of  hers.  It  appeared  to 
be  a  tremendous  effort  for  him  to  open  his  eyes  and  look 
up  at  her.  When,  however,  he  had  satisfied  his  swim 
ming  senses  that  she  was  really  there  in  the  flesh,  he 
murmured : 

"You'll  not — run  away — again?     Promise?" 

"I  promise,  dear.  The  next  time  I  leave  Port  Agnew, 
I'll  say  good-by." 

"You  must  not — leave — again.     Promise?" 

She  knew  his  life  might  be  the  reward  of  a  kindly 
lie ;  so  she  told  it,  bravely  and  without  hesitation.  "Was 
she  not  there  for  that  purpose?" 

"Good — news!  If  I  get — well,  will  you — marry  me, 
Nan  ?"  She  choked  up  then ;  nevertheless,  she  nodded. 

"More  good — news!  Wait  for  me — Sawdust  Pile — 
sweetheart." 

She  interpreted  this  as  a  dismissal,  and  gratefully 

268 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  269 

made  her  exit.  From  the  hospital  office  she  telephoned  or 
ders  to  the  butcher,  the  baker,  the  grocer,  and  the  milk 
man,  forcibly  separated  little  Don  from  the  nurse,  and 
walked  down  through  Port  Agnew  to  the  Sawdust  Pile. 

The  old-fashioned  garden  welcomed  her  with  its  fra 
grance  ;  her  cat,  which  she  had  been  unable  to  give  away 
and  had  not  the  heart  to  destroy  at  the  time  of  her 
departure,  came  to  the  little  white  gate  to  meet  her  and 
rubbed  against  her,  purring  contentedly — apparently 
none  the  worse  for  a  month  of  vagabondage  and  richer 
by  a  litter  of  kittens  that  blinked  at  Nan  from  under 
the  kitchen  stoop.  From  across  the  Bight  of  Tyee,  the 
morning  breeze  brought  her  the  grateful  odor  of  the 
sea,  while  the  white  sea-gulls,  prinking  themselves  on 
the  pile-butts  at  the  outer  edge  of  the  Sawdust  Pile, 
raised  raucous  cries  at  her  approach  and  hopped 
toward  her  in  anticipation  of  the  scraps  she  had  been 
wont  to  toss  them.  She  resurrected  the  key  from  its 
hiding-place  under  the  eaves,  and  her  hot  tears  fell  so 
fast  that  it  was  with  difficulty  she  could  insert  it  in 
:he  door.  Poor  derelict  on  the  sea  of  life,  she  had 
gone  out  with  the  ebb  and  had  been  swept  back  on  the 
flood,  -to  bob  around  for  a  little  while  in  the  cross-cur 
rents  of  human  destinies  before  going  out  again  with 
the  ebb. 

The  air  in  the  little  house  was  hot  and  fetid;  so  she 
threw  open  the  doors  and  windows.  Dust  had  accu 
mulated  everywhere  and,  with  a  certain  detachment, 
she  noted,  even  in  her  distress,  that  she  had  gone  away 
without  closing  the  great  square  piano.  She  ran  her 
fingers  over  the  dusty  keys  and  brought  forth  a  few 
sonorous  chords;  then  she  observed  that  the  little,  an 
cient,  half-portion  grandfather's  clock  had  died  of  in- 


270  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

anition;  so  she  made  a  mental  note  to  listen  for  the 
twelve-o'clock  whistle  on  the  Tyee  mill  and  set  the  clock 
by  it.  The  spigot  over  the  kitchen  sink  was  leaking  a 
little,  and  it  occurred  to  her,  in  the  same  curious  de 
tached  way,  that  it  needed  a  new  gasket. 

She  sighed.  Once  more,  in  this  silent  little  house 
so  fraught  with  happy  memories,  the  old  burden  of 
existence  was  bearing  upon  her — the  feeling  that  she 
was  in  jail.  For  a  month  she  had  been  free — free  to 
walk  the  streets,  to  look  in  shop  windows,  to  seek  a  live 
lihood  and  talk  to  other  human  beings  without  that 
terrible  feeling  that,  no  matter  how  pleasant  they  might 
appear  to  be,  their  eyes  were  secretly  appraising  her 
• — that  they  were  thinking.  And  now  to  be  forced  to 
abandon  that  freedom 

"Oh,  well!  It  can't  last  forever,"  she  soliloquizeoT, 
and,  blinking  away  her  tears,  she  proceeded  to  change 
into  a  house  dress  and  put  her  little  home  in  order. 
Presently,  the  local  expressman  arrived  with  her  bag 
gage  and  was  followed  by  sundry  youths  bearing  sun 
dry  provisions;  at  twelve-thirty,  when  she  and  young 
Don  sat  down  to  the  luncheon  she  had  prepared,  her 
flight  to  New  York  and  return  appeared  singularly 
unreal,  like  the  memory  of  a  dream. 

She  visited  the  hospital  next  day,  choosing  an  hour 
when  Port  Agnew  was  at  its  evening  meal  and  too  pre 
occupied  with  that  important  detail  to  note  her  com 
ing  and  going.  She  returned  to  her  home  under  cover 
of  darkness. 

At  the  hospital,  she  had  received  a  favorable  report 
of  the  patient's  progress.  His  physicians  were  dis 
tinctly  encouraged.  Nan  looked  in  on  her  lover  for 
a  minute,  and  then  hurried  away  on  the  plea  that  her 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  271 

baby  was  locked  in  at  the  Sawdust  Pile,  in  the  absence 
of  some  one  to  care  for  him;  she  had  the  usual  mater 
nal  presentiment  that  he  was  playing  with  matches. 

As  she  was  going  out  she  met  The  Laird  and  Mrs. 
.McKaye  coming  in.  Old  Hector  lifted  his  hat  and  said 
quite  heartily: 

"How  do  you  do,  my  dear  girl.  The  news  this  even 
ing  is  most  encouraging — thanks  to  you,  Pm  told — so 
we  are  permitted  to  see  Donald  for  five  minutes.  Nellie, 
my  dear,  you  remember  little  Nan  Brent,  do  you  not?" 

Mrs.  McKaye's  handsome  mouth  contracted  in  a 
small,  automatic  smile  that  did  not  extend  to  her  eyes. 
She  acknowledged  Nan's  "Good-evening,  Mrs.  Mc 
Kaye,"  with  a  brief  nod,  and  again  favored  the  girl 
with  another  property  smile,  between  the  coming  and 
going  of  which  her  teeth  flashed  with  the  swiftness  of 
the  opening  and  closing  of  a  camera  shutter. 

"We  are  so  grateful  to  you,  Miss  Brent,"  she  mur 
mured.  And  then,  womanlike,  her  alert  brown  eyes, 
starting  their  appraisal  at  Nan's  shoes,  roved  swiftly 
and  calmly  upward,  noting  every  item  of  her  dress, 
every  soft  seductive  curve  of  her  healthy  young  body. 
Her  glance  came  to  a  rest  on  the  girl's  face,  and  for 
the  space  of  several  seconds  they  looked  at  each  other 
frankly  while  old  Hector  was  saying : 

"Aye,  grateful  indeed,  Nan.  We  shall  never  be  out 
of  your  debt.  There  are  times  when  a  kindness  and  a 
sacrifice  are  all  the  more  welcome  because  unexpected, 
and  we  had  no  right  to  expect  this  of  you.  God  bless 
you,  my  dear,  and  remember — I  am  always  your  friend." 

"Yes,  indeed,"  his  wife  murmured,  in  a  voice  that, 
lacking  his  enthusiasm,  conveyed  to  Nan  the  informa- 


272  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

tion  that  The  Laird  spoke  for  himself.  She  tugged 
gently  at  her  husband's  arm ;  again  the  automatic  smile ; 
with  a  cool:  "Good-night,  Miss  Brent.  Thank  you 
again- — so  much,"  she  propelled  The  Laird  toward  the 
hospital  entrance.  He  obeyed  promptly,  glad  to  escape 
a  situation  that  was  painful  to  him,  for  he  had  realized 
that  which  his  wife  did  not  credit  him  with  having  suf 
ficiently  acute  perception  to  realize — to-wit,  that  his 
wife's  camouflage  was  somewhat  frayed  and  poorly 
manufactured.  She  had  not  played  the  game  with  him. 
It  would  have  cost  her  nothing  to  have  been  as  kindly 
and  sincere  as  he  had  been  toward  this  unfortunate 
girl;  nevertheless,  while  he  had  sensed  her  deficiency, 
his  wife  had  carried  the  affair  off  so  well  that  he  could 
not  advance  a  sound  argument  to  convince  her  of  it. 
So  he  merely  remarked  dryly  as  the  hospital  door  closed 
behind  them: 

"Nellie,  I'm  going  to  propound  a  conundrum  for  you. 
Why  did  your  greeting  of  the  Brent  girl  remind  me 
of  that  Louis  Quinze  tapestry  for  which  you  paid  sixty 
thousand  francs  the  last  time  you  were  abroad?" 

"I  loathe  conundrums,  Hector,"  she  replied  coldly. 
"I  do  not  care  to  guess  the  answer." 

"The  answer  is :  Not  quite  genuine,"  he  retorted  mild 
ly,  and  said  no  more  about  it. 

After  that  visit,  Nan  went  no  more  to  the  hospital. 
She  had  met  Donald's  mother  for  the  first  time  in  four 
years  and  had  been  greeted  as  "Miss  Brent,"  although 
in  an  elder  day  when,  as  a  child,  Donald  had  brought 
her  to  The  Dreamerie  to  visit  his  mother  and  sisters, 
and  later  when  she  had  sung  in  the  local  Presbyterian 
choir,  Mrs.  McKaye  and  her  daughters  had  been  wont 
to  greet  her  as  "Nan."  The  girl  did  not  relish  the 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  273 

prospect  of  facing  again  that  camera-shutter  smile  and 
she  shrank  with  the  utmost  distress  from  a  chance  meet 
ing  at  the  hospital  with  Elizabeth  or  Jane  McKaye. 
As  for  The  Laird,  while  she  never  felt  ill  at  ease  in  his 
presence,  still  she  preferred  to  meet  him  as  infre 
quently  as  possible.  As  a  result  of  this  decision,  she 
wrote  Andrew  Daney,  and  after  explaining  to  him  what 
she  intended  doing  and  why,  asked  him  if  he  would 
not  send  some  trustworthy  person  to  her  every  evening 
with  a  report  of  Donald's  progress. 

Accordingly,  Dirty  Dan  O'Leary,  hat  in  hand  and 
greatly  embarrassed,  presented  himself  at  the  Sawdust 
Pile  the  following  evening  under  cover  of  darkness, 
and  handed  her  a  note  from  Daney.  Donald's  condition 
was  continuing  to  improve.  For  his  services,  Mr. 
O'Leary  was  duly  thanked  and  given  a  bouquet  from 
Nan's  old-fashioned  garden  for  presentation  to  the 
invalid.  Tucked  away  in  the  heart  of  it  was  a  tiny  en 
velop  that  enclosed  a  message  of  love  and  cheer. 

Dirty  Dan  was  thrilled  to  think  that  he  had  been 
selected  as  the  intermediary  in  this  secret  romance. 
Clasping  the  bouquet  in  his  grimy  left  hand,  he  bowed 
low  and  placed  his  equally  grimy  right  in  the  region  of 
his  umbilicus. 

"Me  hearrt's  wit'  ye,  agra,"  he  declared.  "Sure  'tis 
to  the  divil  an'  back  agin  I'd  be  the  proud  man  to  go,  if 
'twould  be  a  favor  to  ye,  Miss  Brint." 

"I  know  you  would,  Dan,"  she  agreed,  tactfully  set 
ting  the  wild  rascal  at  his  ease  when  addressing  him 
by  his  Christian  name.  "I  know  what  you  did  for  Mr. 
Donald  that  night.  I  think  you're  very,  very  wonder 
ful.  I  haven't  had  an  opportunity  heretofore  to  tell 
you  how  grateful  I  am  to  you  for  saving  him." 


274*  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

Here  was  a  mystery!  Mr.  O'Leary  in  his  Sunday 
clothes  bound  for  Ireland  resembled  Dirty  Dan  O'Leary 
in  the  raiment  of  a  lumberjack,  his  wild  hair  no  longer 
controlled  by  judicious  applications  of  pomade  and  his 
mustache  now — alas — returned  to  its  original  state  of 
neglect,  as  a  butterfly  resembles  a  caterpillar.  With 
out  pausing  to  consider  this,  Dirty  Dan,  taking  the 
license  of  a  more  or  less  privileged  character,  queried 
impudently : 

"An*  are  ye  glad  they  sint  for  ye  to  come  back?" 

She  decided  that  Mr.  O'Leary  was  inclined  to  be 
familiar;  so  she  merely  looked  at  him  and  her  cool 
glance  chilled  him. 

"Becuz  if  ye  are,"  he  continued,  embarrassed,  "ye 
have  me  to  thank  for  it.  'Tis  meself  that  knows  a 
thing  or  two  wit'out  bein'  told.  Have  ye  not  been 
surprised  that  they  knew  so  well  where  to  find  ye  whin 
they  wanted  ye?" 

She  stared  at  him  in  frank  amazement. 

"Yes,  I  have  been  tremendously  interested  in  learning 
the  secret  of  their  marvelous  perspicacity." 

"I  supplied  Misther  Daney  wit'  your  address,  al- 
lanah." 

"How  did  you  know  it  ?    Did  The  Laird " 

"He  did  not.  I  did  it  all  be  meseP.  Ah,  'tis  the 
romantic  divil  I  am,  Miss  Brint.  Sure  I  got  a  notion 
ye  were  runnin*  away  an'  says  I  to  meself,  says  I:  'I 
don't  like  this  idjee  at  all,  at  all.  These  mysterious 
disappearances  are  always  leadin'  to  throuble.*  Sure, 
what  if  somebody  should  die  an'  lave  ye  a  fortun'? 
What  good  would  it  be  to  ye  if  nobody  could  find  ye? 
An'  in  back  o'  that  agin,"  he  assured  her  cunningly, 
"I  realized  what  a  popular  laddy  buck  I'd  be  wit' 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  275 

Misther  Donald  if  I  knew  what  he  didn't  know  but  was 
wishful  o*  knowin'?" 

"But  how  did  you  procure  my  address  in  New  York  ?" 
she  demanded. 

"Now,  I'm  a  wise  man,  but  if  I  towld  ye  that,  ye'd  be 
as  wise  as  I  am.  An'  since  'twould  break  me  heart  to 
think  anybody  in  Port  Agnew  could  be  as  wise  as  me- 
sel',  ye'll  have  to  excuse  me  from  blatherin'  all  I  know." 

"Oh,  but  you  must  tell  me,  Dan.  There  are  reasons 
why  I  should  know,  and  you  wouldn't  refuse  to  set  my 
mind  at  ease,  would  you?" 

Dirty  Dan  grinned  and  played  his  ace. 

"If  ye'll  sing  'The  Low-backed  Car'  an'  'She  Moved 
Through  the  Fair'  I'll  tell  ye,"  he  promised.  "Sure  I 
listened  to  ye  the  night  o'  the  battle,  an'  so  close  to 
death  was  I,  sure  I  fought  'twas  an  angel  from  glory 
singing'.  Troth,  I  did." 

She  sat  down,  laughing,  at  the  antiquated  piano,  and 
sang  him  the  songs  he  loved ;  then,  because  she  owed  him 
a  great  debt  she  sang  for  him  "Kathleen  Mavourneen," 
"Pretty  Molly  Brannigan,"  "The  Harp  That  Once 
Thro'  Tara's  Halls,"  and  "Killarney."  Dan  stood  just 
outside  the  kitchen  door,  not  presuming  to  enter,  and 
when  the  last  song  was  finished,  he  had  tears  in  his  piggy 
little  eyes;  so  he  fled  with  the  posies,  nor  tarried  to 
thank  her  and  wish  her  a  pleasant  good-night.  Neither* 
did  he  keep  his  promise  by  telling  her  how  he  came  to 
know  her  New  York  address. 

"Let  me  hear  anny  blackguard  mintion  that  one's 
name  wit'  a  lack  o'  respect,"  Mr.  O'Leary  breathed,  as 
he  crossed  the  vacant  lots,  "an'  I'll  break  the  back  o' 
him  in  two  halves !  Whirro-o-o !  Sure  I'd  make  a  mum 
my  out  o'  him [" 


XXXVI 

A  MONTH  passed,  and  to  the  Sawdust  Pile  one 
evening,  instead  of  Dirty  Dan,  there  came  another 
messenger.  It  was  Mr.  Daney.  To  Nan's  invitation 
to  enter  and  be  seated,  he  gave  ready  acceptance ;  once 
seated,  however,  he  showed  indubitable  evidence  of  un 
easiness,  and  that  he  was  the  bearer  of  news  of  more 
than  ordinary  interest  was  apparent  by  the  nervous 
manner  in  which  he  twirled  his  hat  and  scattered  over 
her  clean  floor  a  quantity  of  sawdust  which  had  accu 
mulated  under  the  rim  during  his  peregrinations  round 
the  mill  that  day. 

"Well,  Nan,  he  went  home  to  The  Dreamerie  this 
afternoon,"  the  general  manager  began  presently.  "Got 
up  and  dressed  himself  unaided,  and  insisted  on  walk 
ing  out  to  the  car  without  assistance.  He's  back  on  a 
solid  diet  now,  and  the  way  he's  filling  up  the  chinks 
in  his  superstructure  is  a  sight  to  marvel  at.  I  ex 
pect  he'll  be  back  on  the  job  within  a  month." 

"That  is  wonderful  news,  Mr.  Daney." 

"Of  course,"  Daney  continued,  "his  hair  is  falling 
out,  and  he'll  soon  be  as  bald  as  a  Chihuahua  dog.  But 
— it'll  grow  in  again.  Yes,  indeed.  It'll  grow  in." 

"Oh  dear !  I  do  hope  it  will  grow  out,"  she  bantered, 
in  an  effort  to  put  him  at  his  ease.  "What  a  pity  if  his 
illness  should  leave  poor  Don  with  a  head  like  a  thistle — 
with  all  the  fuzzy-wuzzy  inside." 

He  laughed. 

276 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  277 

"Fm  glad  to  find  you  in  such  good  spirits,  Nan,  be 
cause  I've  called  to  talk  business.  And,  for  some  reason 
or  other,  I  do  not  relish  my  job." 

"Then,  suppose  I  dismiss  you  from  this  particular 
job,  Mr.  Daijey.  Suppose  I  decline  to  discuss  busi 
ness." 

"Oh,  but  business  is  something  that  has  to  be  dis 
cussed  sooner  or  later,"  he  asured  her,  on  the  authority 
of  one  whose  life  had  been  dedicated  to  that  exacting 
duty.  "I  suppose  you've  kept  track  of  your  expenses 
since  you  left  New  York.  That,  of  course,  will  include 
the  outlay  for  your  living-expenses  while  here,  and  in 
order  to  make  doubly  certain  that  we  are  on  the  safe 
side,  I  am  instructed  to  double  this  total  to  cover  the 
additional  expenses  of  your  return  to  New  York.  And 
if  you  will  set  a  value  upon  your  lost  time  from  the  day 
you  left  New  York  until  your  return,  both  days  inclu 
sive,  I  will  include  that  in  the  check  also." 

"Suppose  I  should  charge  you  one  thousand  dollars 
a  day  for  my  lost  time,"  she  suggested  curiously. 

"I  should  pay  it  without  the  slightest  quibble.  The 
Laird  would  be  delighted  to  get  off  so  cheaply.  He 
feels  himself  obligated  to  you  for  returning  to  Port 
Agnew " 

"Did  The  Laird  send  you  here  to  adjust  these  finan 
cial  details  with  me,  Mr.  Daney?" 

"He  did  not.  The  matter  is  entirely  in  my  hands. 
Certainly,  in  all  justice,  you  should  be  reimbursed  for 
the  expenses  of  a  journey  voluntarily  incurred  for  the 
McKaye  benefit." 

"Did  he  say  so?" 

"No.  But  I  know  him  so  well  that  I  have  little  dif 
ficulty  in  anticipating  his  desires.  I  am  acting  under 


278  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

Mrs.  McKay e's  promise  to  you  over  the  telephone  to 
reimburse  you." 

"I  am  glad  to  know  that,  Mr.  Daney.  I  have  a  very 
high  regard  for  Donald's  father,  and  I  should  not  care 
to  convict  him  of  an  attempt  to  settle  with  me  on  a  cash 
basis  for  declining  to  marry  his  son.  I  wish  you  would 
inform  The  Laird,  Mr.  Daney,  that  what  I  did  was  done 
because  it  pleased  me  to  do  it  for  his  sake  and  Donald's. 
They  have  been  at  some  pains,  throughout  the  years, 
to  be  kind  to  the  Brents,  but,  unfortunately  for  the 
Brents,  opportunities  for  reciprocity  have  always  been 
lacking  until  the  night  Mrs.  McKaye  telephoned  me  in 
New  York.  I  cannot  afford  the  gratification  of  very 
many  desires — even  very  simple  ones,  Mr.  Daney — but 
this  happens  to  be  one  of  the  rare  occasions  when  I  can. 
To  quote  Sir  Anthony  Gloster,  'Thank  God  I  ^an  pay 
for  my  fancies!'  The  Laird  doesn't  owe  me  a  dollar, 
and  I  beg  you,  Mr.  Daney,  not  to  distress  me  by  offer 
ing  it." 

"But,  my  dear  girl,  it  has  cost  you  at  least  five  hun 
dred  dollars " 

"What  a  marvelous  sunset  we  had  this  evening,  Mr. 
Daney.  Did  you  observe  it?  My  father  always  main 
tained  that  those  curious  clouds  predicated  sou'west 
squalls." 

"I  didn't  come  here,  girl,  to  talk  about  sunsets. 
You're  foolish  if  you  do  not  accept " 

The  outcast  of  Port  Agnew  turned  upon  Mr.  Daney 
a  pair  of  sea-blue  eyes  that  flashed  dangerously. 

"I  think  I  have  paid  my  debt  to  the  McKayes,"  she 
declared,  and  in  her  calm  voice  there  was  a  sibilant  little 
note  of  passion.  "Indeed,  I  have  a  slight  credit-bal 
ance  due  me,  and  though  Mrs.  McKaye  and  her  daugh- 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  279 

ters  cannot  bring  themselves  to  the  point  of  acknowl 
edging  this  indebtedness,  I  must  insist  upon  collecting 
it.  In  view  of  the  justice  of  my  claim,  however,  I  can 
not  stultify  my  womanhood  by  permitting  the  Mc 
Kaye  women  to  think  they  can  dismiss  the  obligation  by 
writing  a  check.  I  am  not  an  abandoned  woman,  Mr. 
Daney.  I  have  sensibilities  and,  strange  to  relate,  I, 
too,  have  pride — more  than  the  McKayes  I  think  some 
times.  It  is  possible  to  insult  me,  to  hurt  me,  and  cause 
me  to  suffer  cruelty,  and  I  tell  you,  Mr.  Daney,  I  would 
rather  lie  down  and  die  by  the  roadside  than  accept  one 
penny  of  McKaye  money." 

Mr.   Daney  stared   at  her,  visibly  distressed. 

"Why,  what's  happened?"  he  blurted. 

She  ignored  him. 

"I  repeat  that  The  Laird  owes  me  nothing — not  even 
his  thanks.  I  met  him  one  night  with  Mrs.  McKaye  on 
the  hospital  steps,  and  he  tendered  me  his  meed  of 
gratitude  like  the  splendid  gentleman  he  is." 

"Oh,  I  see !"  A  great  light  had  suddenly  dawned  on 
Mr.  Daney.  "The  Laird  led  trumps,  but  Nellie  Mc 
Kaye  revoked  and  played  a  little  deuce?" 

"Well,  Mr.  Daney,  it  seemed  to  me  she  fumbled  the 
ball,  to  employ  a  sporting  metaphor.  She  bowed  to  me 
— like  this — and  smiled  at  me — like  that!"  Her  cool, 
patronizing  nod  and  the  sudden  contraction  and  relaxa 
tion  of  Nan's  facial  muscles  brought  a  wry  smile  to  old 
Daney's  stolid  countenance.  "Even  if  I  felt  that  I 
could  afford  to  or  was  forced  to  accept  reimbursement 
for  my  expenses  and  lost  time,"  Nan  resumed,  "her  ac 
tion  precluded  it.  Can't  you  realize  that,  Mr.  Daney? 
And  Jane  and  Elizabeth  went  her  one — no,  two — bet 
ter.  I'm  going  to  tell  you  about  it.  I  went  up-town  the 


280  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

other  day  to  send  a  telegram,  and  in  the  telegraph-of 
fice  I  met  Donald's  sisters.  I  knew  they  would  not  care 
to  have  me  speak  to  them  in  public,  so,  when  the  teleg 
rapher  wasn't  looking  at  me  and  intuition  told  me  that 
Eliazbeth  and  Jane  were,  I  glanced  up  and  favored  them 
with  a  very  small  but  very  polite  smile  of  recognition." 

"And  then,"  quoted  Mr.  Daney,  reaching  into  his 
ragbag  of  a  mind  and  bringing  up  a  remnant  of  Shake 
speare,  "  'there  came  a  frost — a  killing  frost !'  ' 

"Two  hundred  and  forty-five  degrees  below  zero,  and 
not  even  a  stick  of  kindling  in  the  wood-box,"  she  as 
sured  him  humorously.  "They  looked  at  me,  through 
me,  over  me,  beyond  me — 

"And  never  batted  an  eye?" 

"Not  even  the  flicker  of  an  eyelash." 

His  canine  loyalty  bade  Mr.  Daney  defend  The 
Laird's  ewe  lambs. 

"Well,  ir.aybe  they  didn't  recognize  you,"  he  pro 
tested.  "A  good  deal  of  water  has  run  under  a  number 
of  bridges  since  the  McKaye  girls  saw  you  last." 

"In  that  event,  Mr.  Daney,  I  charge  that  their  man 
ners  would  have  been  extremely  bad.  I  know  town  dogs 
that  smile  at  me  when  I  smile  at  them.  However,  much 
as  I  would  like  to  assure  you  that  they  didn't  know  me, 
il  must  insist,  Mr.  Daney,  that  they  did.*' 

"Well,  now,  how  do  you  know,  Nan?" 

"A  little  devil  took  possession  of  me,  Mr.  Daney,  and 
inspired  me  to  smoke  them  out.  I  walked  up  and  held 
out  my  hand  to  Jane.  'How  do  you  do,  Jane,'  I  said. 
'I'm  Nan  Brent.  Have  you  forgotten  me?' ' 

Mr.  Daney  raised  both  arms  toward  the  ceiling. 

"  'Oh,  God !  cried  the  woodcock, — and  away  he 
flew!'  What  did  the  chit  say?" 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  281 

"She  said,  *Wh}%  not  at  all,'  and  turned  her  back  on 
me.  I  then  proffered  Elizabeth  a  similar  greeting  and 
said,  'Surely,  Elizabeth,  you  haven't  forgotten  me!' 
Elizabeth  is  really  funny.  She  replied :  'So  sorry !  I've 
always  been  absent-minded !'  She  looked  at  me  steadily 
with  such  a  cool  mirth  in  her  eyes — she  has  nice  eyes, 
too — and  I  must  have  had  mirth  in  mine,  also,  because 
I  remember  that  at  precisely  that  minute  I  thought  up 
a  perfectly  wonderful  joke  on  Elizabeth  and  Jane  and 
their  mother.  Of  course,  the  poor  Laird  will  not  see 
the  point  of  the  joke,  but  then  he's  the  innocent  by 
stander,  and  innocent  bystanders  are  always  getting 
hurt." 

"Ah,  do  not  hurt  him!"  Daney  pleaded  anxiously. 
"He's  a  good,  kind,  manly  gentleman.  Spare  him! 
Spare  him,  my  dear!" 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  hurt  him,  Mr.  Daney,  if  I  did  not 
know  I  had  the  power  to  heal  his  hurts." 

Suddenly  she  commenced  to  laugh,  albeit  there  was  in 
her  laugh  a  quality  which  almost  caused  Mr.  Daney  to 
imagine  that  he  had  hackles  on  his  back  and  that  they 
were  rising.  He  much  preferred  the  note  of  anger  of 
a  few  minutes  previous ;  with  a  rush  all  of  his  old  appre 
hensions  returned,  and  he  rasped  out  at  her  irritably : 

"Well,  well!  What's  this  joke,  anyhow?  Tell  me  and 
perhaps  I  may  laugh,  too." 

"Oh,  no,  Mr.  Daney,  you'd  never  laugh  at  this  one. 
You'd  weep." 

"Try  me." 

"Very  well.  You  will  recall,  Mr.  Daney,  that  when 
Mrs.  MeKaye  rang  me  up  in  New  York,  she  was  care 
ful,  even  while  asking  me  to  return,  to  let  me  know  my 
place?" 


282  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

"Yes,  yes.  I  was  listening  on  the  line.  I  heard  her, 
and  I  thought  she  was  a  bit  raw.  But  no  matter.  Pro 
ceed." 

"Well,  since  she  asked  me  to  return  to  Port  Agnew, 
I'm  wondering  who  is  going  to  ask  me  to  go  away 
again  ?" 

"I'll  be  shot  if  I  will!  Ha!  Ha!  Ha!"  And  Mr. 
Daney  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed  the  most  en 
joyable  laugh  he  had  known  since  the  night  an  itinerant 
hypnotist,  entertaining  the  citizens  of  Port  Agnew,  had 
requested  any  adventurous  gentleman  in  the  audience 
who  thought  he  couldn't  be  hypnotized,  to  walk  up  and 
prove  it.  Dirty  Dan  O'Leary  had  volunteered,  had 
been  mesmerized  after  a  struggle,  and,  upon  being  told 
that  he  was  Dick  Whittington's  cat,  had  proceeded  to 
cut  some  feline  capers  that  would  have  tickled  the  sen 
sibilities  of  a  totem-pole.  Mr.  Daney's  honest  cachin- 
nations  now  were  so  infectious  that  Nan  commenced  to 
laugh  with  him — heartily,  but  no  longer  with  that  strid 
ent  little  note  of  resentment,  and  cumulatively,  as  Mr. 
Daney's  mirth  mounted  until  the  honest  fellow's  tears 
cascaded  across  his  ruddy  cheeks. 

"Egad,  Nan,"  he  declared  presently,  "but  you  have 
a  rare  sense  of  humor !  Yes,  do  it.  Do  it !  Make  'em 
all  come  down — right  here  to  the  Sawdust  Pile !  Make 
.'em  remember  you — all  three  of  'em — make  'em  say 
please!  Yes,  sir!  'Please  Nan,  forgive  me  for  forget 
ting.  Please  Nan,  forgive  me  for  smiling  like  the  head 
of  an  old  fiddle.  Please,  Nan,  get  out  of  Port  Agnew, 
so  we  can  sleep  nights.  Please,  Nan,  be  careful  not  to 
say  "Good-by."  Please,  Nan,  knock  out  a  couple  of 
your  front  teeth  and  wear  a  black  wig  and  a  sunbon- 
net,  so  nobody'll  recognize  you  when  you  leave,  follow 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  283 

you,  and  learn  your  address.' '  He  paused  to  wipe  his 
eyes.  "Why,  dog  my  cats,  girl,  you've  got  'em  where 
the  hair  is  short ;  so  make  'em  toe  the  scratch !" 

"Well,  of  course,"  Nan  reminded  him,  "they  are  not 
likely  to  toe  the  scratch  unless  they  receive  a  hint  that 
toeing  scratches  is  going  to  be  fashionable  in  our  best 
Port  Agnew  circles  this  winter." 

Mr.  Daney  arched  his  wild  eyebrows,  pursed  his  lips, 
popped  his  eyes,  and  looked  at  Nan  over  the  rims  of  his 
spectacles. 

"Very  well,  my  dear  girl,  I'll  be  the  goat.  A  lesson 
in  humility  will  not  be  wasted  on  certain  parties.  But 
suppose  they  object?  Suppose  they  buck  and  pitch  and 
sidestep  and  bawl  and  carry  on?  What  then?" 

"Why,"  Nan  replied  innocently,  regarding  him  in 
friendly  fashion  with  those  wistful  blue  eyes,  "you 
might  hint  that  I'm  liable  to  go  to  The  Laird  and  tell 
him  I  regard  him  as  a  very  poor  sport,  indeed,  to  ex 
pect  me  to  give  up  his  son,  in  view  of  the  fact  that  his 
son's  mother  sent  for  me  to  save  that  son's  life.  Do 
you  know,  dear  Mr.  Daney,  I  suspect  that  if  The  Laird 
knew  his  wife  had  compromised  him  so,  he  would  be  a 
singularly  wild  Scot !" 

"Onward,  Christian  soldier,  marching  as  to  war!" 
cried  Mr.  Daney,  and,  seizing  his  hat  from  the  table, 
he  fled  into  the  night. 


XXXVII 

UPON  reaching  his  home,  Mr.  Daney  telephoned  to 
Mrs.  McKaye. 

"It  is  important,"  he  informed  her,  "that  you,  Miss 
Jane  and  Miss  Elizabeth  come  down  to  my  office  to 
morrow  for  a  conference.  I  would  come  up  to  The 
Dreamerie  to  see  you,  but  Donald  is  home  now,  and 
his  father  will  be  with  him;  so  I  would  prefer  to  see 
you  down-town.  I  have  some  news  of  interest  for 
you." 

The  hint  of  news  of  interest  was  sufficient  to  secure 
from  Mrs.  McKaye  a  promise  to  call  at  his  office  with 
the  girls  at  ten  o'clock  the  following  morning. 

"What  is  this  interesting  news,  Andrew?"  Mrs. 
Daney  asked,  with  well-simulated  disinterestedness. 
She  was  knitting  for  the  French  War-Relief  Commit 
tee  a  pair  of  those  prodigious  socks  with  which  well- 
meaning  souls  all  over  these  United  States  have  in 
spired  many  a  poor  little  devil  of  a  poilu  with  the 
thought  that  the  French  must  be  regarded  by  us  as 
a  Brobdingnagian  race. 

"We're  arranging  a  big  blowout,  unknown  to  The 
Laird  and  Donald,  to  celebrate  the  boy's  return  to 
health.  I'm  planning  to  shut  down  the  mill  and  the 
logging-camps  for  three  days,"  he  replied  glibly.  Of 
late  he  was  finding  it  much  easier  to  lie  to  her  than  to 
tell  the  truth,  and  he  had  observed  with  satisfaction 
that  Mrs.  Daney's  bovine  brain  assimilated  either  with 
equal  avidity. 

284 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  285 

"How  perfectly  lovely!"  she  cooed,  and  dropped  a 
stitch  which  later  would  be  heard  from  on  the  march, 
in  the  shape  of  a  blister  on  a  Gallic  heel.  "You're  so 
thoughtful  and  kind,  Andrew!  Sometimes  I  wonder  if 
the  McKayes  really  appreciate  your  worth." 

"Well,  we'll  see,"  he  answered  enigmatically  and  went 
off  to  bed. 

It  was  with  a  feeling  of  alert  interest  that  he  awaited 
in  his  office,  the  following  morning,  the  arrival  of  the 
ladies  from  The  Dreamerie.  They  arrived  half  an  hour 
late,  very  well  content  with  themselves  and  the  world 
in  general,  and  filling  Mr.  Daney's  office  with  the  per 
fume  of  their  presence.  They  appeared  to  be  in  such 
good  fettle,  indeed,  that  Mr.  Daney  took  a  secret  savage 
delight  in  dissipating  their  nonchalance. 

"Well,  ladies,"  he  began,  "I  decided  yesterday  that 
it  was  getting  along  toward  the  season  of  the  year  when 
my  thoughts  stray  as  usual  toward  the  Sawdust  Pile 
as  a  drying-yard.  So  I  went  down  to  see  if  Nan  Brent 
had  abandoned  it  again — and  sure  enough,  she  hadn't." 
He  paused  exasperatingly,  after  the  fashion  of  an 
orator  who  realizes  that  he  has  awakened  in  his  audi 
ence  an  alert  and  respectful  interest.  "Fine  kettle  of 
fish  brewing  down  there,"  he  resumed  darkly,  and  paused 
again,  glanced  at  the  ceiling  critically  as  if  searching 
for  leaks,  smacked  his  lips  and  murmured*  confiden 
tially  a  single  word:  "Snag!" 

"'Snag!'"     In  chorus. 

"Snag!  In  some  unaccountable  manner,  it  appears 
that  you  three  ladies  have  aroused  in  Nan  Brent  a  spirit 
of  antagonism " 

"Nonsense !" 

"The  idea !" 


286  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

"Fiddlesticks!" 

"I  state  the  condition  as  I  found  it.  I  happen  to 
know  that  the  girl  possesses  sufficient  means  to  permit 
her  to  live  at  the  Sawdust  Pile  for  a  year  at  least." 

"But  isn't  she  going  away?"  Mrs.  McKaye's  voice 
rose  sharply.  "Is  she  going  to  break  her  bargain?" 

"Oh,  I  think  not,  Mrs.  McKaye.  She  merely  com 
plained  to  me  that  somebody  begged  her  to  come  back 
to  Port  Agnew ;  so  she's  waiting  for  somebody  to  come 
down  to  the  Sawdust  Pile  and  beg  her  to  go  away  again. 
She's  inclined  to  be  capricious  about  it,  too.  One  per 
son  isn't  enough.  She  wants  three  people  to  call,  and 
she  insists  that  they  be — ah — ladies !" 

"Good  gracious,  Andrew,  you  don't  mean  it?" 

"I  am  delivering  a  message,  Mrs.  McKaye." 

"She  must  be  spoofing  you,"  Jane   declared. 

"Well,  she  laughed  a  good  deal  about  it,  Miss  Jane, 
and  confided  to  me  that  a  bit  of  lurking  devil  in  your 
sister's  eyes  the  day  you  both  met  her  in  the  telegrapfe 
office  gave  her  the  inspiration  for  this  joke.  She  be 
lieves  that  she  who  laughs  last  laughs  best." 

Mrs.  McKaye  was  consumed  with  virtuous  indigna 
tion. 

"The  shameless  hussy  I  Does  she  imagine  for  a  mo 
ment  that  I  will  submit  to  blackmail,  that  my  daughters 
or  myself  could  afford  to  be  seen  calling  upon  her  at 
the  Sawdust  Pile?"  % 

"She  wants  to  force  us  to  recognize  her,  mother." 
Jane,  recalling  that  day  in  the  telegraph-office,  sat  star 
ing  at  Daney  with  flashing  eyes.  She  was  biting  the  fin 
ger  of  her  glove. 

"Nothing  doing,"  Elizabeth  drawled  smilingly. 

Mr.  Daney  nodded  his  comprehension. 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  287 

"In  that  event,  ladies,"  he  countered,  with  malignant 
joy  in  his  suppressed  soul,  "I  am  requested  to  remind 
you  that  The  Laird  will  be  informed  by  Miss  Brent  that 
she  considers  him  a  very  short  sport,  indeed,  if  he  in 
sists  upon  regarding  her  as  unworthy  of  his  son,  in  view 
of  the  fact  that  his  son's  mother  considered  her  a  person 
of  such  importance  that  she  used  the  transcontinental 
telephone  in  order  to  induce " 

"Yes,  yes ;  I  know  what  you're  going  to  say.  Do  you 
really  think  she  would  go  as  far  as  that,  Andrew?"  Mrs. 
McKaye  was  very  pale. 

"Beware  the  anger  of  a  woman  scorned,"  he  quoted. 

"In  the  event  that  she  should,  Mr.  Daney,  we  should 
have  no  other  alternative  but  to  deny  it."  Elizabeth 
was  speaking.  She  still  wore  her  impish  glacial  smile. 
"As  a  usual  thing,  we  are  opposed  to  fibbing  on  the 
high  moral  ground  that  it  is  not  a  lady's  pastime,  but 
in  view  of  the  perfectly  appalling  results  that  would 
follow  our  failure  to  fib  in  this  particular  case,  I'm 
afraid  we'll  have  to  join  hands,  Mr.  Daney,  and  prove 
Nan  Brent  a  liar.  Naturally,  we  count  on  your  help. 
As  a  result  of  his  conversation  with  you,  father  believes 
you  did  the  telephoning." 

"I  told  him  half  the  truth,  but  no  lie.  I  have  never 
lied  to  him,  Miss  Elizabeth,  and  I  never  shall.  When 
Hector  McKaye  asks  me  for  the  truth,  he'll  get  it."  In 
Mr.  Daney's  voice  there  was  a  growl  that  spoke  of  slow, 
quiet  fury  at  the  realization  that  this  cool  young  woman 
should  presume  to  dictate  to  him. 

"I  think  you'll  change  your  mind,  Mr.  Daney.  You'll 
not  refuse  the  hurdle  when  you  come  to  it.  As  for  this 
wanton  Brent  girl,  tell  her  that  we  will  think  her  propo 
sition  over  and  that  she  may  look  for  a  call  from  us. 


288  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

We  do  not  care  how  long  she  looks,  do  we  mother?" 
And  she  laughed  her  gay,  impish  laugh.  "In  the  mean 
time,  Mr.  Daney,  we  will  do  our  best  to  spare  ourselves 
and  you  the  ignominy  of  that  fib.  The  doctors  will 
order  Donald  away  for  a  complete  rest  for  six  months, 
and  dad  will  go  with  him.  When  they're  gone  that 
Brent  house  on  the  Sawdust  Pile  is  going  to  catch  fire 
— accidently,  mysteriously.  The  man  who  scuttled  the 
Brent's  motor-boat  surely  will  not  scruple  at  such  a 
simple  matter  as  burning  the  Brent  shanty.  Come, 
mother.  Jane,  for  goodness'  sake,  do  buck  up !  Good- 
by,  dear  Mr.  Daney." 

He  stared  at  her  admiringly.  In  Elizabeth,  he  dis 
cerned,  for  the  first  time,  more  than  a  modicum  of  her 
father's  resolute  personality ;  he  saw  clearly  that  she 
dominated  her  mother  and  Jane  and,  like  The  Laird, 
would  carry  her  objective,  once  she  decided  upon  it,  re 
gardless  of  consequences. 

"Good-morning,  ladies.  I  shall  repeat  your  message 
— verbatim,  Miss  Elizabeth,"  he  assured  the  departing 
trio. 

And  that  night  he  did  so. 

"They  neglected  to  inform  you  how  much  time  they 
would  require  to  think  it  over,  did  they  not?"  Nan  in 
terrogated  mildly.  "And  they  didn't  tell  you  approxi 
mately  when  I  should  look  for  their  visit?" 

"No,"  he  admitted. 

"Oil,  I  knew  they  wouldn't  submit,"  Nan  flung  back 
at  him.  "They  despise  me — impersonally,  at  first  and 
before  it  seemed  that  I  might  dim  the  family  pride; 
personally,  when  it  was  apparent  that  I  could  dim  it  if 
I  desired.  Well,  I'm  tired  of  being  looked  at  and 
sneered  at,  and  I  haven't  money  enough  left  to  face  New 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  289 

York  again.  I  had  dreamed  of  the  kind  of  living  I 
might  earn,  and  when  the  opportunity  to  earn  it  was 
already  in  my  grasp,  I  abandoned  it  to  come  back  to 
Port  Agrew.  I  had  intended  to  play  fair  with  them, 
although  I  had  to  lie  to  Donald  to  do  that,  but — they 
hurt  something  inside  of  me — something  deep  that 
hadn't  been  hurt  before — and — and  now " 

"Now  what!"  Mr.  Daney  cried  in  anguished  tones. 

"If  Donald  McKaye  comes  down  to  the  Sawdust  Pile 
and  asks  me  to  marry  him,  I'm  going  to  do  it.  I  have 
a  right  to  happiness;  I'm — I'm  tired — sacrificing — 
Nobody  cares — no  appreciation — Nan  of  the  Sawdust 
Pile  will  be — mistress  of  The  Dreamerie — and  when  they 
— enter  house  of  mine — they  shall  be — humbler  than  I. 
They  shall " 

As  Mr.  Daney  fled  from  the  house,  he  looked  back 
through  the  little  hall  and  saw  Nan  Brent  seated  at 
her  tiny  living-room  table,  her  golden  head  pillowed 
in  her  arms  outspread  upon  the  table,  her  body  shaken 
with  great,  passionate  sobs.  Mr.  Daney's  heart  was 
constricted.  He  hadn't  felt  like  that  since  the  Aurora 
Stock  Company  had  played  "East  Lynne"  in  the  Port 
Agnew  Opera  House. 


XXXVIII 

A  T  the  Sawdust  Pile  the  monotony  of  Nan  Brent's 
•**•  life  remained  unbroken;  she  was  marking  time, 
waiting  for  something  to  turn  up.  Since  the  last  visit 
of  the  McKaye  ambassador  she  had  not  altered  her 
determination  to  exist  independent  of  financial  aid  from 
the  McKaye  women  or  their  father, — for  according  to 
her  code,  the  acceptance  of  remuneration  for  what  she 
had  done  would  be  debasing.  Nan  had  made  this  deci 
sion  even  while  realizing  that  in  waiving  Mr.  Daney's 
proffer  of  reimbursement  she  was  rendering  impossible 
a  return  to  New  York  with  her  child.  The  expenses  of 
their  journey  and  the  maintenance  of  their  brief  resi 
dence  there;  the  outlay  for  clothing  for  both  and  the 
purchase  of  an  additional  wardrobe  necessitated  when, 
with  unbelievable  good  luck  she  had  succeeded  in  secur 
ing  twenty  weeks  time  over  a  high-class  vaudeville  cir 
cuit  for  her  "Songs  of  the  'Sixties,"  had,  together  with 
the  cost  of  transportation  back  to  Port  Agnew,  so  de 
pleted  her  resources  that,  with  the  few  hundred  dollars 
remaining,  her  courage  was  not  equal  to  the  problem 
which  unemployment  in  New  York  would  present;  for 
with  the  receipt  of  Mrs.  McKaye's  message,  Nan  had 
written  the  booking  agent  explaining  that  she  had  been 
called  West  on  a  matter  which  could  not  be  evaded  and 
expressed  a  hope  that  at  a  later  date  the  "time"  might 
be  open  to  her.  Following  her  return  to  the  Sawdust 
Pile  she  had  received  a  brief  communication  stating  that 

290 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  291 

there  would  be  no  opening  for  her  until  the  following 
year.  The  abandonment  of  her  contract  and  the  sub 
sequent  loss  of  commissions  to  the  agent  had  seriously 
peeved  that  person. 

The  receipt  of  this  news,  while  a  severe  disappoint 
ment,  had  not  caused  her  to  flinch,  for  she  had,  in  a 
measure,  anticipated  it  and  with  the  calmness  of  des 
peration  already  commenced  giving  thought  to  the 
problem  of  her  future  existence.  In  the  end  she  had 
comforted  herself  with  the  thought  that  good  cooks 
were  exceedingly  scarce — so  scarce,  in  fact,  that  even 
a  cook  with  impedimenta  in  the  shape  of  a  small  son 
might  be  reasonably  certain  of  prompt  and  well-paid 
employment.  Picturing  herself  as  a  kitchen  mechanic 
brought  a  wry  smile  to  her  sweet  face,  but — it  was  hon 
orable  employment  and  she  preferred  it  to  being  a 
waitress  or  an  underfed  and  underpaid  saleswoman  in 
a  department  store.  For  she  could  cook  wonderfully 
well  and  she  knew  it;  she  believed  she  could  dignify  a 
kitchen  and  she  preferred  it  to  cadging  from  the  Mc- 
Kayes  the  means  to  enable  her  to  withstand  the  eco 
nomic  siege  incident  to  procuring  a  livelihood  more  dig 
nified  and  remunerative. 

Thus  she  had  planned  up  to  the  day  of  her  unex 
pected  meeting  with  Jane  and  Elizabeth  McKaye  in  the 
Port  Agnew  telegraph  office.  On  that  day,  something 
had  happened — something  that  had  constituted  a  dis 
tinct  event  in  Nan  Brent's  existence  and  with  which 
the  well-bred  insolence  of  the  McKaye  girls  had  noth 
ing  to  do.  Indirectly  old  Caleb  Brent  had  been  re 
sponsible,  for  by  the  mere  act  of  dying,  his  three- 
quarter  pay  as  a  retired  sailor  had  automatically  ter- 


292  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

minated,  and  Nan  had  written  the  Navy  Department 
notifying  it  accordingly. 

Now,  the  death  of  a  retired  member  of  the  Army 
or  Navy,  no  matter  what  his  grade  may  be,  consti 
tutes  news  for  the  service  journals,  and  the  fact  that 
old  Caleb  had  been  a  medal  of  honor  man  appeared, 
to  the  editor  of  one  of  these  journals,  to  entitle  the  dead 
sailor  to  three  hundred  words  of  posthumous  publicity. 
Subsequently,  these  three  hundred  words  came  under 
the  eye  of  a  retired  admiral  of  the  United  States  Navy, 
who  thereby  became  aware  that  he  had  an  orphaned 
grand-daughter  residing  in  Port  Agnew,  Washing 
ton. 

As  a  man  grows  old  he  grows  kindlier;  those  things 
which,  at  middle  age,  appear  so  necessary  to  an  unruf 
fled  existence,  frequently  undergo  such  a  metamorpho 
sis,  due  to  the  corroding  effects  of  time,  that  at  eighty 
one  has  either  forgotten  them  or  regards  them  as  some 
thing  to  be  secretly  ashamed  of.  Thus  it  was  with 
Nan's  grandfather.  His  pride  and  dignity  were  as 
austere  as  ever,  but  his  withered  heart  yearned  for  the 
love  and  companionship  of  one  of  his  own  blood ;  now 
that  Caleb  Brent  was  dead,  the  ancient  martinet  for 
got  the  offense  which  this  simple  sailor  had  committed 
against  the  pride  of  a  long  line  of  distinguished  gen 
tlemen,  members  of  the  honorable  profession  of  arms. 
He  thought  it  over  for  a  month,  and  then  wrote  the 
only  child  of  his  dead  daughter,  asking  her  to  come  to 
him,  hinting  broadly  that  his  days  in  the  land  were 
nearly  numbered  and  that,  in  the  matter  of  worldly 
goods  he  was  not  exactly  a  pauper. 

Having  posted  this  letter  the  old  admiral  waited  pa 
tiently  for  an  answer,  and  when  this  answer  was  not 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  293 

forthcoming  within  the  time  he  had  set,  he  had  tele 
graphed  the  postmaster  of  Port  Agnew,  requesting  in 
formation  as  to  her  address.  This  telegram  the  post 
master  had  promptly  sent  over  to  Nan  and  it  was  for 
the  purpose  of  replying  to  it  that  she  had  gone  to  the 
telegraph  office  on  the  day  when  Fate  decreed  that 
Jane  and  Elizabeth  McKaye  should  also  be  there. 

After  her  return  to  the  Sawdust  Pile  that  day  Nan's 
thoughts  frequently  adverted  to  the  Biblical  line :  "The 
Lord  giveth  and  the  Lord  taketh  away."  Certainly, 
in  her  case,  He  appeared  to  be  working  at  cross  pur 
poses.  At  a  time  when  she  had  resigned  herself  to 
domestic  labor  in  order  to  avoid  starvation,  her  aris 
tocratic,  arrogant,  prideful  grandfather  had  seen  fit 
to  forgive  her  dead  father  and  offer  her  shelter  from  the 
buffets  of  the  world ;  yet,  even  while  striving,  apparent 
ly  to  be  kind,  she  knew  that  the  reason  underlying  his 
invitation  was  plain,  old-fashioned  heart-hunger,  a  ten 
der  conscience  and  a  generous  admixture  of  human  sel 
fishness.  She  smiled  bitterly  at  his  blunt  hint  of  a 
monetary  reward  following  his  demise;  it  occurred  to 
her  that  the  stubborn  old  admiral  was  striving  to  buy 
that  which  he  might  have  had  for  a  different  ask 
ing. 

She  read  the  admiral's  letter  for  the  twentieth  time 
— and  from  the  thick  white  page  her  glance  went  to  her 
child.  Would  he  be  welcome  in  that  stern  old  sea  dog's 
home  ?  Would  his  great-grandfather  forget  the  bar  sin 
ister  of  little  Don's  birth  and  would  her  own  misfor 
tune  be  viewed  by  him  with  the  tenderness  and  perfect 
understanding  accorded  her  by  old  Caleb?  She  did  not 
think  so ;  and  with  the  remembrance  of  her  dead  father, 
the  flames  of  revolt  leaped  in  her  heart.  He  had  been 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

loyal  to  her  and  she  would  be  loyal  to  him.  No,  no! 
She  was  not  yet  prepared  to  come  fawning  to  the  feet  of 
that  fierce  old  man  who  had  robbed  her  father  of  his 
happiness.  What  right  had  he  to  expect  forgiveness, 
sans  the  asking,  sans  an  acknowledgment  of  his  heart- 
lessness  ? 

With  a  bitter  smile  she  wrote  him  a  long  letter,  relat 
ing  in  detail  the  incident  of  her  marriage,  the  birth  of 
her  child,  her  standing  in  Port  Agnew  society  and  her 
belief  that  all  of  this  rendered  acceptance  of  his  invi 
tation  impossible,  if  she  were  to  act  with  deference  to 
his  point  of  view  and  still  remain  loyal  to  the  memory 
of  her  dead  father.  For  these  reasons  she  declined, 
thanked  him  for  his  kindness  and  remained  his  very 
sincerely.  When  she  had  posted  this  letter  she  felt 
better,  and  immediately  took  up  the  case  of  the  Mc- 
Kayes. 

Until  that  moment  she  had  not  considered  seriously 
the  possibility  of  a  marriage  with  the  young  Laird  of 
Port  Agnew  as  a  means  of  humiliating  these  women  who 
had  humiliated  her.  The  thought  had  occurred  to  her 
in  the  telegraph  office  and  at  the  moment  had  held  for 
her  a  certain  delightful  fascination ;  prior  to  that  meet 
ing  her  resolution  not  to  permit  Donald  McKaye  to 
share  her  uncertain  fortunes  had  been  as  adamant. 
But  long  and  bitter  reflection  upon  the  problem  thrust 
upon  her  by  her  grandfather  had  imbued  her  with  a 
clearer,  deeper  realization  of  the  futility  of  striving 
to  please  everybody  in  this  curious  world,  of  the  cruelty 
of  those  who  seek  to  adjust  to  their  point  of  view  that 
of  another  fully  capable  of  adjusting  his  own;  of  the 
appalling  lack  of  appreciation  with  which  her  piteous 
sacrifice  would  meet  from  the  very  persons  who  shrank 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  295 

from  the  ignominy  incident  to  non-sacrifice  on  the  part 
of  her  whom  they  held  in  open  contempt ! 

Donald  McKaye  was  not  unintelligent.  He  was  a 
man,  grown,  with  all  a  man's  passions,  with  all  the 
caution  to  be  expected  in  one  of  his  class.  If  he  still 
loved  her  sufficiently,  following  a  period  of  mature 
deliberation  and  fierce  opposition  from  his  people,  to 
offer  her  honorable  marriage,  would  she  not  be  a  fool 
to  cast  away  such  a  priceless  gift?  How  few  men 
know  love  so  strong,  so  tender,  so  unselfish,  that  they 
do  not  shrink  from  sharing  with  the  object  of  their 
love,  the  odium  which  society  has  always  set  upon  the 
woman  taken  in  adultery. 

In  rejecting  his  proffered  sacrifice,  she  had  told  her 
self  that  she  acted  thus  in  order  to  preserve  his  hap 
piness,  although  at  the  expense  of  her  own.  By  so 
doing  Nan  realized  that  she  had  taken  a  lofty,  a  noble 
stand ;  nevertheless,  who  was  she  that  she  should  pre* 
sume  to  decide  just  wherein  lay  the  preservation  of  his 
happiness?  In  her  grandfather's  letter  before  her  she 
had  ample  evidence  of  the  miscarriage  of  such  pompous 
assumptions. 

There  is  a  latent  force  in  the  weakest  of  women,  an 
amazing  capacity  for  rebellion  in  the  meekest  and  a 
regret  for  lost  virtue  even  in  the  most  abandoned. 
Nan  was  neither  weak,  meek,  nor  abandoned;  where 
fore,  to  be  accorded  toleration,  polite  contumely  and 
resentment  where  profound  gratitude  and  admiration 
were  her  due,  had  aroused  in  her  a  smouldering  resent 
ment  which  had  burned  like  a  handful  of  oil-soaked 
waste  tossed  into  a  corner.  At  first  a  mild  heat ;  then 
a  dull  red  glow  of  spontaneous  combustion  progresses 
— and  presently  flame  and  smoke. 


296  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

It  is  probable  that  mere  man,  who  never  has  been 
able  to  comprehend  the  intensity  of  feeling  of  which 
a  woman  is  capable,  is  not  equal  to  the  problem  of 
realizing  the  effect  of  solitude,  misunderstanding  and 
despair  upon  the  mind  of  a  woman  of  more  than  or 
dinary  sensibilities  and  imagination.  The  seed  of 
doubt,  planted  in  such  soil,  burgeons  rapidly,  and  when, 
upon  the  very  day  that  Mr.  Daney  had  made  his  last 
call  at  the  Sawdust  Pile,  Nan,  spurred  to  her  decision 
by  developments  of  which  none  but  she  was  aware,  had 
blazed  forth  in  open  rebellion  and  given  the  Tyee  Lum- 
bef  Company's  general  manager  the  fright  of  his  pro 
saic  existence. 


XXXIX 

A  FTER  leaving  the  Sawdust  Pile,  Mr.  Daney  walked 
**•  twice  around  the  Bight  of  Tyee  before  arriving 
at  a  definite  decision  as  to  his  future  conduct  in  tKis 
intrigue,  participation  in  which  had  been  thrust  upon 
him  by  his  own  loyalty  to  his  employer  and  the  idiocy 
of  three  hare-brained  women.  Time  and  again  as  he 
paced  the  lonely  strand,  Mr.  Daney  made  audible  ref 
erence  to  the  bells  of  the  nether  regions  and  the  pres 
ence  of  panther  tracks !  This  was  his  most  terrible 
oath  and  was  never  employed  except  under  exceptional 
circumstances. 

At  length  Mr.  Daney  arrived  at  a  decision.  He 
would  have  nothing  further  to  do  with  this  horrible 
love  affair.  In  the  role  of  Dan  Cupid's  murderer  he 
was  apparently  a  Tumble  Tom ;  for  three  months  he  had 
felt  as  if  he  trod  thin  ice — and  now  he  had  fallen 
through!  "I'll  carry  no  more  of  their  messages,"  he 
declared  aloud.  "I'll  tell  them  so  and  wash  my  hands 
of  the  entire  matter.  If  there  is  to  be  any  asking 
of  favors  from  that  girl  the  McKaye  women  can  do 
it." 

It  was  after  midnight  when  he  returned  to  his  home 
and  his  wife  was  sitting  up  to  receive  an  explanation  of 
his  nocturnal  prowlings.  However,  the  look  of  despera 
tion  with  which  he  met  her  accusing  glance  frightened 
her  into  silence,  albeit  she  had  a  quiet  little  crying 
spell  next  morning  when  she  discovered  on  the  floor  of 

297 


298  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

Mr.  Daney's  room  quite  a  quantity  of  sand  which  had 
worked  into  his  shoes  during  his  agitated  spring  around 
Tyee  Beach.  She  was  quite  certain  he  had  indulged 
in  a  moonlight  stroll  on  the  seashore  with  a  younger 
and  prettier  woman,  so  she  resolved  to  follow  him  when 
next  he  fared  forth  and  catch  the  traitor  red-handed. 

To  her  surprise,  Mr.  Daney  went  out  no  more  o' 
nights.  He  had  kept  his  word  given  to  himself,  and 
on  the  morning  succeeding  his  extraordinary  interview 
with  Nan  he  had  again  summoned  the  ladies  of  the 
McKaye  family  to  his  office  for  a  conference.  How 
ever,  the  capable  Elizabeth  was  the  only  one  of  the  trio 
to  present  herself,  for  this  young  woman — and  not 
without  reason — regarded  herself  as  Mr.  Daney's  men 
tal  superior;  she  was  confident  of  her  ability  to  retain 
his  loyalty  should  he  display  a  tendency  to  betray 
them. 

"Well,  dear  Mr.  Daney,"  she  murmured  in  her  melted- 
butter  voice,  "what  new  bugaboo  have  you  developed 
for  us?" 

"You  do  not  have  to  bother  calling  upon  the  Brent 
girl,  Miss  Elizabeth.  She  says  now  that  if  Donald  asks 
her  to  marry  him  she'll  accept.  She  has  an  idea  she'll 
be  mistress  of  The  Dreamerie." 

Elizabeth  arched  her  eyebrows.  "What  else?"  she 
queried  amiably. 

"That's  all — from  Nan  Brent.  I  have  a  small  defi 
to  make  on  my  own  account,  however,  Miss  Elizabeth. 
From  this  minute  on  I  wash  my  hands  of  the  private 
affairs  of  the  McKaye  family.  My  job  is  managing 
your  father's  financial  affairs.  Believe  me,  the  next 
move  in  this  comedy-drama  is  a  wedding — if  Donald 
asks  her  in  all  seriousness  to  marry  him — that  is,  if  he 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

insists  on  it.  He  may  insist  and  then  again  he  may  not, 
but  if  he  should,  I  shall  not  attempt  to  stop  him.  He's 
free,  white  and  twenty-one;  he's  my  boss  and  I  hope  I 
know  my  place.  Personally,  I'm  willing  to  wager  con 
siderable  that  he'll  marry  her,  but  whether  he  does  or 
not — I'm  through." 

Elizabeth  McKaye  sighed.  "That  means  we  must 
work  fast,  Mr.  Daney.  Donald  will  be  feeling  strong 
enough  within  two  weeks  to  call  on  her;  he  may  even 
motor  down  to  the  Sawdust  Pile  within  ten  days. 
Mother  has  already  broached  the  subject  of  taking 
him  away  to  southern  California  or  Florida  for  a  long 
rest;  Dad  has  seconded  the  motion  with  great  enthusi 
asm — and  that  stubborn  Donald  has  told  them  frankly 
that  he  isn't  going  away  for  a  rest." 

"Gosh!"  Mr.  Daney  gasped.  "That  makes  it  a 
little  binding,  eh?" 

She  met  his  clear  glance  thoughtfully  and  said :  "If 
her  house  should  burn  down — accidentally — to-day  or 
to-night,  when  she  and  her  baby  aren't  in  it,  she'll 
have  to  leave  Port  Agnew.  There  isn't  a  house  in  town 
where  she  could  find  shelter,  and  you  could  see  to  it  that 
all  the  rooms  in  the  hotel  are  taken." 

"You  forget,  my  dear,"  he  replied  with  a  small 
smile.  "I  have  no  further  interest  in  this  affair  and 
moreover,  I'm  not  turning  firebug — not  this  year." 

"You  refuse  to  help  us?" 

"Absolutely.  What  is  to  be  will  be,  and  I,  for  one, 
have  decided  not  to  poke  my  finger  into  the  cogs  of 
destiny." 

"Well — thanks  awfully  for  what  you've  already  done, 
Mr.  Daney."  Again  she  smiled  her  bright,  impish 
smile.  "Good-morning." 


300  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

"Good-morning,  Miss  Elizabeth." 

As  she  left  the  office,  Mr.  Daney  noted  her  debutante 
slouch  and  gritted  his  teeth.  "Wonder  if  they'll  call 
on  Nan  now,  or  make  a  combined  attack  on  the  boy  and 
try  bluff  and  threats  and  tears,"  he  soliloquized. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  they  tried  the  latter.  The  storm 
broke  after  luncheon  one  day  when  Donald  declared 
he  felt  strong  enough  to  go  down  to  Port  Agnew,  and, 
in  the  presence  of  the  entire  family,  ordered  the  butler 
to  tell  his  father's  chauffeur  to  bring  the  closed  car 
around  to  the  door.  Immediately,  the  astute  Elizabeth 
precipitated  matters  by  asking  her  brother  sharply 
if  his  projected  visit  to  Port  Agnew  predicated  also 
a  visit  to  the  Sawdust  Pile. 

"Why,  yes,  Elizabeth,"  he  answered  calmly. 

The  Laird  scowled  at  her,  but  she  ignored  the  scowl ; 
so  old  Hector  flashed  a  warning  glance  to  Jane  and 
her  mother — a  glance  that  said  quite  plainly:  "Let 
there  be  no  upbraiding  of  my  son." 

"Do  you  think  it  is  quite — ah,  delicate  of  you,  Don 
ald,  to  call  upon  any  young  lady  at  her  apart 
ments  in  the  absence  of  a  proper  chaperon,  even  if 
the  lady  herself  appears  to  have  singularly  free  and 
easy  views  on  the  propriety  of  receiving  you  thus?" 

He  saw  that  she  was  bound  to  force  the  issue  and 
was  rather  relieved  than  otherwise.  With  a  mental 
promise  to  himself  to  keep  his  temper  at  all  hazards  he 
replied:  "Well,  Elizabeth,  I'll  admit  the  situation  is 
a  trifle  awkward,  but  what  cannot  be  cured  must  be 
endured.  You  see,  I  want  to  have  a  talk  with  Nan 
Brent  and  I  cannot  do  so  unless  I  call  upon  her  at 
the  Sawdust  Pile.  It  is  impossible  for  us  to  meet  on 
neutral  ground,  I  fear.  However,  if  you  will  write  her 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  301 

a  nice  friendly  little  note  and  invite  her  up  here  to  visit 
me,  the  question  of  a  chaperon  will  be  solved  and  I 
will  postpone  my  visit  until  she  gets  here." 

"Don't  be  a  fool,"  she  retorted  bitterly. 

"As  for  Nan's  free  and  easy  views  on  the  subjects, 
who  in  Port  Agnew,  may  I  ask,  expects  her  to  act  dif 
ferently?  Why,  therefore,  since  she  is  fully  convinced 
that  I  possess  a  few  of  the  outward  appearances  of 
a  gentleman,  should  she  fear  to  receive  me  in  her  home? 
To  conform  to  the  social  standards  of  those  who  decry 
her  virtue?  Elizabeth,  you  expect  too  much,  I  fear." 

"Hear,  hear,"  cried  The  Laird.  He  realized  that 
Elizabeth  was  not  to  be  denied,  so  he  thought  best  to 
assume  a  jocular  attitude  during  the  discussion. 

"Father,"  his  eldest  daughter  reminded  him.  "It  is 
your  duty  to  forbid  Donald  doing  anything  which  is 
certain  to  bring  his  family  into  disrepute  and  make  it 
the  target  for  the  tongue  of  scandal." 

"Oh,  leave  him  alone,  you  pestiferous  woman,"  old 
Hector  cried  sharply.  "Had  it  not  been  for  the  girl 
he  would  not  be  living  this  minute,  so  the  least  he  can 
do  is  to  express  his  compliments  to  her.  Also,  since 
this  disagreeable  topic  has  again  been  aired,  let  me 
remind  you  that  the  lass  isn't  going  to  marry  Donald. 
She  came  out  here,  Donald,"  he  continued,  turning  to 
his  son,  "with  the  distinct  understanding  that  her  job 
was  to  humor  you  back  to  health,  and  for  that  you  owe 
her  your  thanks  and  I'm  willing  you  should  call  on  her 
and  express  them.  Don't  flattter  yourself  that  she'll 
marry  you,  my  boy.  I've  had  a  talk  with  her — since 
you  must  know  it,  sooner  or  later — and  she  promised 
me  she  wouldn't." 

The  young  Laird's  face  paled  a  little  but  he  main- 


302  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

tained  his  composure.  "I  greatly  fear  you  misunder 
stood  her,  father,"  he  replied  gently.  "She  promised 
me  she'd  marry  me.  You  see,"  he  added  looking  the 
old  man  resolutely  in  the  face,  "I  think  she's  virtuous, 
so  I'm  going  to  marry  her." 

His  father  smiled  sadly.  "Poor  lad.  God  knows  I'm 
sorry  for  you,  but — well,  go  see  her  and  let's  have  the 
issue  settled  once  for  all.  For  God's  sake,  lad,  grant 
me  peace  of  mind.  End  it  to-day,  one  way  or  the 
other," 

"Ah,  yes,  you're  brave,"  Elizabeth  flung  at  her 
father.  "You're  so  certain  that  girl  will  keep  her 
promise,  aren't  you?  Well,  I  happen  to  have  been  in 
formed,  on  very  good  authority,  that  she  intends  to 
betray  you.  She  had  made  the  statement  that  she'll 
marry  Donald  if  he  asks  her — again." 

"The  girl  doesn't  impress  me  as  one  who  would  lie, 
Elizabeth.  Who  told  you  this?" 

"Andrew  Daney." 

"Bear  with  me  a  moment,  son,  till  I  call  Andrew  on 
the  telephone,"  the  Laird  requested,  and  went  into,  the 
telephone  booth  under  the  stairs  in  the  reception  hall. 
When  he  emerged  a  few  minutes  later  his  face  was 
pale  and  haggard. 

"Well?  What  did  I  tell  you?"  Elizabeth's  voice  was 
triumphant. 

Her  father  ignored  her.  Placing  himself  squarely  be 
fore  his  son,  he  bent  forward  slightly  and  thrust  his 
aggressive  face  close  to  Donald's.  "I  command  you 
to  respect  the  honor  of  my  house,"  he  cried  furiously. 
"Eor  the  last  time,  Donald  McKaye,  ha'  done  wie  this 
woman,  or — "  and  his  great  arm  was  outflung  in  a 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  303 

sweeping  gesture  that  denoted  all  too  forcibly  the 
terrible  sentence  he  shrank  from  speaking. 

"Are  you  offering  me  an  alternative?"  Donald's  voice 
was  low  and  very  calm,  but  his  brown  eyes  were  blazing 
with  suppressed  rage.  "The  Dreamerie  or — "  and  he 
swung  and  pointed  to  the  Brent  cottage  far  below  them 
on  the  Sawdust  Pile. 

"Aye,"  his  father  cried  in  a  hard  cracked  voice. 
"Aye!" 

Donald  looked  over  at  his  mother  with  the  helpless 
ness  of  a  child  who  has  fallen  and  hurt  himself.  "And 
you,  mother?  What  do  you  say  to  this?" 

She  thought  she  would  faint.  "You — you  must  obey 
your  father,"  she  quavered.  Until  her  son  should  marry 
Nan  Brent  she  could  not  force  herself  to  the  belief 
that  he  could  possibly  commit  such  an  incredible  of 
fense. 

"The  opinions  of  you  and  Jane,"  Donald  continued, 
turning  to  each  sister  in  turn,  "do  not  interest  me  par 
ticularly,  but  while  the  polls  are  open  you  might  as  well 
vote.  If  I  marry  Nan  Brent  are  you  each  prepared 
to  forget  that  I  am  your  brother?" 

Elizabeth  nodded  calmly.  She  had  gone  too  far 
now  to  develop  weakness  when  an  assumption  of  invin 
cible  strength  might  yet  win  the  day. 

"I  couldn't  receive  such  a  peculiar  sister-in-law," 
Jane  murmured,  evidently  close  to  tears.  "Surely,  you 
would  not  expect  us  to  take  such  a  woman  to  our 
hearts,  Donald  dear?" 

"I  did  not  build  The  Dreamerie  for  yon  lass,"  The 
Laird  burst  forth  passionately. 

His  son  stood  with  bowed  head.  "Have  you,  mother, 
or  you,  my  sisters,  been  down  to  the  Sawdust  Pile 


804  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

to  thank  Nan  for  inspiring  me — no  matter  how — with 
a  desire  to  live?  I  think  you  realize  that  until  she 
came  I  was  too  unhappy — too  disgusted  with  life — to 
care  whether  I  got  well  or  not?  Have  you  absolved 
yourselves  of  an  obligation  which  must  be  perfectly 
evident  to  perfect  ladies?" 

"We  have  not."  Elizabeth's  calm  voice  answered 
him.  "What  the  girl  did  was  entirely  of  her  own  voli 
tion.  She  did  it  for  your  sake,  and  since  it  is  appar 
ent  that  she  plans  to  collect  the  reward  of  her  disin 
terested  effort  we  have  considered  that  a  formal  expres 
sion  of  thanks  would  be  superfluous." 

"I  see.  I  see.  Well,  perhaps  you're  right.  I  shall 
not  quarrel  with  your  point  of  view.  And  you're  all 
quite  certain  you  will  never  recede  from  your  attitude 
of  hostility  toward  Nan — under  no  circumstances,  to 
recognize  her  as  my  wife  and  extend  to  her  the  hospi 
tality  of  The  Dreamerie?" 

He  challenged  his  father  with  a  look  and  the  old  man 
slowly  nodded  an  affirmative.  His  mother  thought  Don 
ald  was  about  to  yield  to  their  opposition  and  nodded 
likewise.  "I  have  already  answered  that  question," 
Jane  murmured  tragically,  and  Elizabeth  again  re 
minded  him  that  it  was  not  necessary  for  him  to  make 
a  fool  of  himself. 

"Well,  I'm  glad  this  affair  has  been  ironed  out — at 
last,"  Donald  assured  them.  "I  had  cherished  the  hope 
that  when  you  knew  Nan  better — "  He  choked  up  for 
a  moment,  then  laid  his  hands  on  his  father's  shoulders. 
"Well,  sir,"  he  gulped,  "I'm  going  down  to  the  Saw 
dust  Pile  and  thank  Nan  for  saving  my  life.  Not,"  he 
added  bitterly,  "that  I  anticipate  enjoying  that  life  to 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  305 

the  fullest  for  some  years  to  come.  If  I  did  not  believe 
that  time  will  solve  the  problem — 

The  Laird's  heart  leaped.  "Tush,  tush,  boy.  Run 
along  and  don't  do  anything  foolish."  He  slapped 
Donald  heartily  across  the  back  while  the  decisive  sweep 
of  that  same  hand  an  instant  later  informed  the  women 
of  his  household  that  it  would  be  unnecessary  to  discuss 
this  painful  matter  further. 

"I  understand  just  how  you  feel,  dad.  I  hold  no 
resentment,"  Donald  assured  him,  and  dragged  The 
Laird  close  to  him  in  a  filial  embrace.  He  crossed  the 
room  and  kissed  his  mother,  who  clung  to  him  a  mo 
ment,  tearfully;  seeing  him  so  submissive,  Jane  and 
Elizabeth  each  came  up  and  claimed  the  right  to  em 
brace  him  with  sisterly  affection. 

The  butler  entered  to  announce  that  the  car  was 
waiting  at  the  front  door.  Old  Hector  helped  his  son 
into  a  great  coat  and  Mrs.  McKaye  wound  a  reefer 
around- his  neck  and  tucked  the  ends  inside  the  coat. 
Then  The  Laird  helped  him  into  the  car;  as  it  rolled 
slowly  down  the  cliff  road,  Old  Hector  snorted  with 
relief. 

"By  Judas,'*  he  declared,  "I  never  dreamed  the  boy 
would  accept  such  an  ultimatum." 

"Well,  the  way  to  find  out  is  to  try,"  Elizabeth 
suggested.  "Sorry  to  have  been  forced  to  disregard 
that  optical  S.  O.  S.  of  yours,  Dad,  but  I  realized  that 
we  had  to  strike  now  or  never." 

"Whew-w-w !"  The  Laird  whistled  again. 


xxxx 

WITH    the    license    of    long    familiarity,    Donald 
knocked  at  the  front  door  of  the  Brent  cottage 
to   anounce  his   arrival;   then,   without   awaiting  per 
mission  to  enter,  he  opened  the  door  and  met  Nan  in 
the  tiny  hall  hurrying' to  admit  him. 

"You — Donald !"  she  reproved  him.  "What  are  you 
doing  here?  You  shouldn't  be  out." 

"That's  why  I  came  in,"  he  retorted  drily  and  kissed 
her.  "And  I'm  here  because  I  couldn't  stand  The 
Dreamerie  another  instant.  I  wanted  my  mother  and 
sisters  to  call  on  you  and  thank  you  for  having  been  so 
nice  to  me  during  my  illness,  but  the  idea  wasn't  received 
very  enthusiastically.  So,  for  the  sheer  sake  of  doing 
the  decent  thing  I've  called  myself.  It  might  please 
you,"  he  added,  "to  know  that  my  father  thought  I 
should." 

"He  is  always  tactful  and  kind,"  she  agreed. 

She  led  him  to  her  father's  old  easy  chair  in  the 
living  room. 

"As  Dirty  Dan  O'Leary  once  remarked  in  my  pres 
ence,"  he  be^an,  "it  is  a  long  lane  that  hasn't  got  a 
saloon  at  the  end  of  it.  I  will  first  light  a  cigarette,  if 
I  may,  and  make  myself  comfortable,  before  putting 
you  on  the  witness  stand  and  subjecting  you  to  a  severe 
cross-examination.  Seat  yourself  on  that  little  hassock 
before  me  and  in  such  a  position  that  I  can  look 
squarely  into  your  face  and  note  flush  of  guilt  when 
you  fib  to  me." 

308 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  307 

She  obeyed,  with  some  slight  inward  trepidation,  and 
sat  looking  up  at  him  demurely. 

"Nan,"  he  began,  "did  anybody  ever  suggest  to  you 
that  the  sporty  thing  for  you  to  do  would  be  to  run 
away  and  hide  where  I  could  never  find  you?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Did  anybody  ever  suggest  to  you  that  the  sporty 
thing  for  you  to  do  would  be  to  return  to  Port  Agnew 
from  your  involuntary  exile  and  inspire  me  with  some 
enthusiasm  for  life?" 

His  keen  perception  did  not  fail  to  interpret  the 
slight  flush  of  embarrassment  that  suffused  Nan's  face. 
"I  object  to  that  question,  your  honor,"  she  replied 
with  cleverly  simulated  gaiety,  "on  the  ground  that  to 
do  so  would  necessitate  the  violation  of  a  confidence." 

"The  objection  is  sustained  by  the  court.  Did  my 
father  or  Andrew  Daney,  acting  for  him,  ever  offer 
you  any  sum  of  money  as  a  bribe  for  disappearing  out 
of  my  life?" 

"No.  Your  father  offered  to  be  very,  very  kind  to 
me  the  morning  I  was  leaving.  We  met  at  the  railroad 
station  and  his  offer  was  made  after  I  informed  him 
that  I  was  leaving  Port  Agnew  forever — and  why.  So 
I  know  he  made  the  offer  just  because  he  wanted  to  be 
kind — because  he  is  kind." 

"Neither  he  nor  Daney  communicated  with  you  in 
anyway  following  your  departure  from  Port  Agnew?" 

"They  did  not." 

"Before  leaving  New  York  or  immediately  after  your 
return  to  Port  Agnew,  did  you  enter  into  verbal  agree 
ment  with  any  member  of  my  family  or  their  representa 
tive  to  nurse  me  back  to  health  and  then  jilt  me?" 

"I  did  not.    The  morning  I  appeared  at  the  hospital 


308  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

your  father,  remembering  my  statement  to  him  the 
morning  I  fled  from  Port  Agnew,  suspected  that  I  had 
had  a  change  of  heart.  He  said  to  me :  'So  this  is  your 
idea  of  playing  the  game,  is  it?'  I  assured  him  then 
that  I  had  not  returned  to  Port  Agnew  with  the  inten 
tion  of  marrying  you,  but  merely  to  stiffen  your  morale, 
as  it  were.  He  seemed  quite  satisfied  with  my  expla 
nation,  which  I  gave  him  in  absolute  good  faith." 

"Did  he  ever  question  you  as  to  how  you  ascertained 
I  was  ill?" 

"No.  While  I  cannot  explain  my  impression,  I  gath 
ered  at  the  time  that  he  knew." 

"He  credited  Andrew  Daney  with  that  philanthropic 
job,  Nan.  He  does  not  know  that  my  mother  com 
municated  with  you." 

"Neither  do  you,  Donald.  I  have  not  told  you  she 
did." 

"I  am  not  such  a  stupid  fellow  as  to  believe  you 
would  ever  tell  me  anything  that  might  hurt  me,  Nan. 
One  does  not  relish  the  information  that  one's  mother 
has  not  exhibited  the  sort  of  delicacy  one  expects  of 
one's  mother,"  he  added  bluntly. 

"It  is  not  nice  of  you  to  say  that,  Donald.  How  do 
you  know  that  Mr.  Daney  did  not  send  for  me?" 

He  smiled  tolerantly.  "Before  Daney  would  dare  do 
that  he  would  consult  with  my  father,  and  if  my  father 
had  consented  to  it  he  would  never  have  left  to  Daney 
the  task  of  requesting  such  a  tremendous  favor  of  you 
for  his  account.  If  Daney  ever  consulted  my  father  as 
to  the  advisability  of  such  a  course,  my  father  refused 
to  consider  it." 

"What  makes  you  think  so,  old  smarty?" 

"Well,  I  know  my  father's  code.    He  had  no  hesitancy 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  309 

in  permitting  you  to  know  that  you  were  not  welcome 
as  a  prospective  daughter-in-law,  although  he  was  not 
so  rude  as  to  tell  you  why.  He  left  that  to  your  imag 
ination.  Now,  for  my  father  to  ask  a  favor  of  any 
body  is  very  unusual.  He  has  a  motto  that  a  favor 
accepted  is  a  debt  incurred,  and  he  dislikes  those  peren 
nial  debts.  My  father  is  a  trader,  my  dear.  If  he  had, 
directly  or  indirectly,  been  responsible  for  your  return 
to  Port  Agnew  for  the  purpose  of  saving  his  son's  life, 
he  would  not  be — well,  he  just  wouldn't  do  it,"  he 
explained  with  some  embarrassment.  "He  couldn't  do 
it.  He  would  say  to  you,  'My  son  is  dying  because 
he  finds  life  uninteresting  without  you.  If  you  return, 
your  presence  will  stimulate  in  him  a  renewed  interest 
in  life  and  he  will,  in  all  probability,  survive.  If  you 
are  good  enough  to  save  my  son  from  death  you  are 
good  enough  to  share  his  life,  and  although  this  wed 
ding  is  about  going  to  kill  me,  nevertheless  we  will 
pull  it  off  and  make  believe  we  like  it.* ' 

"Nonsense,"  she  retorted. 

"Knowing  how  my  father  would  act  under  such  cir 
cumstances,  I  was  dumfounded  when  he  informed  me 
this  afternoon  that  you  had  agreed  to  perform  under 
false  pretenses.  He  was  quite  certain  you  would  pro 
ceed  to  jilt  me,  now  that  I  am  strong  enough  to  stand 
it.  He  said  you  had  promised  him  you  would." 

"I  did  not  promise  him.  I  merely  told  him  truth 
fully  what  my  firm  intention  was  at  the  time  he 
demanded  to  be  informed  as  to  the  nature  of  my  inten 
tions.  I  reserved  my  woman's  right  to  change  my 
mind." 

«0h!" 

"Had  I  made  your  father  a  definite  promise  I  would 


310  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

have  kept  it.  If  I  were  a  party  to  such  a  contract  with 
jour  father,  Donald  dear,  all  of  your  pleading  to  in 
duce  me  to  break  it  would  be  in  vain." 

"A  contract  without  a  consideration  is  void  in  law," 
he  reminded  her.  "Dad  just  figured  he  could  bank  on 
your  love  for  me.  He  did  you  the  honor  to  think  it 
was  so  strong  and  wonderful  that  death  would  be  a 
delirious  delight  to  you  in  preference  to  spoiling  my 
career  by  marrying  me — well — Elizabeth  disillusioned 
him!" 

Nan's  eyebrows  lifted  perceptibly. 

"She  informed  my  father  in  my  presence,"  Donald 
continued,  "that  you  had  had  a  change  of  heart ;  that 
you  were  now  resolved  to  accept  me  should  I  again 
ask  you  to  marry  me.  It  appears  you  had  told  Andrew 
Daney  this — in  cold  blood  as  it  were.  So  Dad  went  to 
the  telephone  and  verified  this  report  by  Daney;  then 
we  had  a  grand  show-down  and  I  was  definitely  given 
my  choice  of  habitation — The  Dreamerie  or  the  Saw 
dust  Pile.  Father,  Mother,  Elizabeth  and  Jane  jointly 
and  severally  assured  me  that  they  would  never  receive 
you,  so  Nan,  dear,  it  appears  that  I  will  have  to  pay 
rather  a  heavy  price  for  the  privilege  of  marrying 
you " 

"I  have  never  told  you  I  would  marry  you,"  she 
cried  sharply. 

"Yes,  you  did.     That  day  in  the  hospital." 

"That  was  a  very  necessary  fib  and  you  should  not 
hold  it  against  me.  It  was  a  promise  absolutely  not 
made  in  good  faith." 

"But  did  you  tell  Daney  that  you  would  accept  me 
if  I  should  ask  you  again  to  marry  me?" 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  311 

She  was  visibly  agitated  but  answered  him  truth 
fully.  "Yes,  I  did." 

"You  said  it  in  anger?" 

"Yes."     Very  softly. 

"Daney  had  come  to  you  with  an  offer  of  monetary 
reward  for  your  invaluable  services  to  the  McKaye 
family,  had  he  not?  And  since  what  you  did  was  not 
done  for  profit,  you  were  properly  infuriated  and 
couldn't  resist  giving  Daney  the  scare  of  his  life?  That 
was  the  way  of  it,  was  it  not?" 

Nan  nodded  and  some  tears  that  trembled  on  her 
long  lashes  were  flicked  off  by  the  vigor  of  the  nod; 
some  of  them  fell  on  the  big  gaunt  hands  that  held  hers. 

"I  suppose  you  haven't  sufficient  money  with  which 
to  return  to  New  York?"  he  continued. 

Again  she  nodded  an  affirmative. 

"Just  what  are  your  plans,  dear?" 

"I  suppose  I'll  have  to  go  somewhere  and  try  to 
procure  a  position  as  a  cook  lady." 

"An  admirable  decision,"  he  declared  enthusiasti 
cally.  "I'll  give  you  a  job  cooking  for  me,  provided 
you'll  agree  to  marry  me  and  permit  me  to  live  in  your 
house.  I'm  a  man  without  a  home  and  you've  just  got 
to  take  me  in,  Nan.  I  have  no  other  place  to  lay  my 
weary  head." 

She  looked  at  him  and  through  the  blur  of  her  tears 
she  saw  him  smiling  down  at  her,  calmly,  benignantly 
and  with  that  little  touch  of  whimsicality  that  was 
always  in  evidence  and  which  even  his  heavv  heart 
could  not  now  subdue. 

"You've — you've — chosen  the  Sawdust  Pile?"  she 
cried  incredulously. 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

"How  else  would  a  man  of  spirit  choose,  old  ship 
mate?" 

"But  you're  not  marrying  me  to  save  me  from  pov 
erty,  Donald?  You  must  be  certain  you  aren't  mis 
taking  for  love  the  sympathy  which  rises  so  naturally 
in  that  big  heart  of  yours.  If  it's  only  a  great  pity — 
if  it's  only  the  protective  instinct " 

"Hush!  It's  all  of  that  and  then  some.  I'm  a  man 
grown  beyond  the  puppy-love  stage,  my  dear — and  the 
McKayes  are  not  an  impulsive  race.  We  count  the 
costs  carefully  and  take  careful  note  of  the  potential 
profits.  And  while  I  could  grant  my  people  the  right 
to  make  hash  of  my  happiness  I  must,  for  some  inexpli 
cable  reason,  deny  them  the  privilege  of  doing  it  with 
yours.  I  think  I  can  make  you  happy,  Nan;  not  so 
happy,  perhaps,  that  the  shadow  of  your  sorrow  will 
not  fall  across  your  life  occasionally,  but  so  much 
happier  than  you  are  at  present  that  the  experiment 
seems  worth  trying,  even  at  the  expense  of  sacrificing 
the  wordly  pride  of  my  people." 

"Are  you  entertaining  a  strong  hope  that  after  you 
marry  me,  dear,  your  people  will  forgive  you,  make  the 
best  of  what  they  consider  a  bad  bargain  and  acknowl 
edge  me  after  a  fashion?  Do  you  think  they  will 
let  bygones  be  bygones  and  take  me  to  their  hearts — 
for  your  sake?" 

"I  entertain  no  such  silly  illusion.  Under  no  cir 
cumstances  will  they  ever  acknowledge  you  after  a 
fashion,  for  the  very  sufficient  reason  that  the  oppor 
tunity  to  be  martyrs  will  never  be  accorded  my  mother 
and  sisters  by  yours  truly,  Donald  McKaye,  late  Laird 
apparent  of  Port  Agnew.  Bless  your  sweet  soul,  Nan, 
I  have  some  pride,  you  know.  I  wouldn't  permit 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  313 

them  to  tolerate  you.     I  prefer  open  warfare  every 
time." 

"Have  you  broken  with  your  people,  dear?'* 
"Yes,  but  they  do  not  know  it  yet.    I  didn't  have  the 
heart  to  raise  a  scene,  so  I  merely  gave  the  old  pater 
a  hug,  kissed  mother  and  the  girls  and  came  away. 
I'm  not  going  back." 

"You  will — if  I  refuse  to  marry  you?" 
"I  do  not  anticipate  such  a  refusal.  However,  it 
does  not  enter  into  the  matter  at  all  in  so  far  as  my 
decision  to  quit  The  Dreamerie  is  concerned.  I'm 
through !  Listen,  Nan.  I  could  win  my  father  to  you 
— win  him  wholeheartedly  and  without  reservation — 
if  I  should  inform  him  that  my  mother  asked  you  to 
come  back  to  Port  Agnew.  My  mother  and  the  girls 
have  not  told  him  of  this  and  I  suspect  they  have  en 
couraged  his  assumption  that  Andrew  Daney  took 
matters  in  his  own  hands.  Father  has  not  cared  to 
inquire  into  the  matter,  anyhow,  because  he  is  secretly 
grateful  to  Daney  (as  he  thinks)  for  disobeying  him. 
Mother  and  the  girls  are  forcing  Daney  to  protect 
them;  they  are  using  his  loyalty  to  the  family  as  a 
club  to  keep  him  in  line.  With  that  club  they  forced 
him  to  come  to  you  with  a  proposition  that  must  have 
been  repugnant  to  him,  if  for  no  other  reason  than 
that  he  knew  my  father  would  not  countenance  it. 
When  you  told  him  you  would  marry  me  if  I  should 
ask  you  again,  to  whom  did  Daney  report?  To  Eliza 
beth,  of  course — the  brains  of  the  opposition.  That 
proves  to  me  that  my  father  had  nothing  to  do  with  it 
— why  the  sfcory  is  as  easily  understood  from  deduc 
tion  as  if  I  had  heard  the  details  from  their  lips.  But 
I  cannot  use  my  mother's  peace  of  mind  as  a  club 


314  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

to  beat  dad  into  line ;  I  cannot  tell  him  something  that 
will  almost  make  him  hate  mother  and  my  sisters; 
I  would  not  force  him  to  do  that  which  he  does  not 
desire  to  do  because  it  is  the  kindly,  sensible  and  hu 
mane  course.  So  I  shall  sit  tight  and  say  nothing — 
and  by  the  way,  I  love  you  more  than  ever  for  keeping 
this  affair  from  me.  So  few  women  are  true  blue 
sports,  I'm  afraid." 

"You  must  be  very,  very  angry  and  hurt,  Donald?" 

"I  am.  So  angry  and  hurt  that  I  desire  to  be 
happy  within  the  shortest  possible  period  of  elapsed 
time.  Now,  old  girl,  look  right  into  my  eyes,  because 
I'm  going  to  propose  to  you  for  the  last  time.  My 
worldly  assets  consist  of  about  a  hundred  dollars  in 
cash  and  a  six  dollar  wedding  ring  which  I  bought  as 
I  came  through  Port  Agnew.  With  these  wordly  goods 
and  all  the  love  and  honor  and  respect  a  man  can  possi 
bly  have  for  a  woman,  I  desire  to  endow  you.  Answer 
me  quickly.  Yes  or  no?" 

"Yes,"  she  whispered. 

"You  chatterbox!     When?" 

"At  your  pleasure." 

"That's  trading  talk.  We'll  be  married  this  after 
noon."  He  stretched  out  his  long  arms  for  her  and 
as  she  slid  off  the  low  hassock  and  knelt  beside  his 
chair,  he  gathered  her  hungrily  to  him  and  held  her 
there  for  a  long  time  before  he  spoke  again.  When 
he  did  it  was  to  say,  with  an  air  of  wonder  that  was 
almost  childlike: 

"I  never  knew  it  was  possible  for  a  man  to  be  so 
utterly  wretched  and  so  tremendously  happy  and  all 
within  the  same  hour.  I  love  you  so  much  it  hurts." 
He  released  her  and  glanced  at  his  watch.  "It  is  now 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

two  o'clock,  Nan.     If  we  leave  here  by  three  we  louse 
reach  the  county  seat  by  five  o'clock,  procure  a  lice 
and  be  married  by  six.     By  half  past  seven  we  at  I 
have  finished  our  wedding  supper  and  by  about    ered 
o'clock  we  shall  be  back  at  the  Sawdust  Pile.    Put  a 
clean  pair  of  rompers  on  the  young  fellow  and  let's 
go !     From  this  day   forward  we  live,  like  the   Sinn 
Fein  "For  ourselves  alone." 

While  Nan  was  preparing  for  that  hurried  ceremony, 
Donald  strolled  about  the  little  yard,  looking  over  the 
neglected  garden  and  marking  for  future  attention 
various  matters  such  as  a  broken  hinge  on  the  gate, 
some  palings  off  the  fence  and  the  crying  necessity 
for  paint  on  the  little  white  house,  for  he  was  striving 
mightily  to  shut  out  all  thought  of  his  past  life  and 
concentrate  on  matters  that  had  to  do  with  the  future. 
Presently  he  wandered  out  on  the  bulkhead.  The  great 
white  gulls  which  spent  their  leisure  hours  gravely  con 
templating  the  Bight  of  Tyee  from  the  decaying  piling, 
rose  lazily  at  his  approach  and  with  hoarse  cries  of 
resentment  flapped  out  to  sea ;  his  dull  glance  followed 
them  and  rested  on  a  familiar  sight. 

Through  the  Bight  of  Tyee  his  father's  barkentine 
Kohala  was  coming  home  from  Honolulu,  ramping  in 
before  a  twenty  mile  breeze  with  every  shred  of  canvas 
drawing.  She  was  heeled  over  to  starboard  a  little 
and  there  was  a  pretty  little  bone  in  her  teeth;  the 
colors  streamed  from  her  mizzen  rigging  while  from  her 
foretruck  the  house-flag  flew.  Idly  Donald  watched  her 
rntil  she  was  abreast  and  below  The  Dreamerie  and 
her  house-flag  dipped  in  salute  to  the  master  watching 
from,  the  cliff ;  instantly  the  young  Laird  of  Tyee  saw 
a  woolly  puff  of  smoke  break  from  the  terrace  below 


31/  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

.     house  and  several  seconds  later  the  dull  boom  of 

wil  s^STia^   g1111-      His   heart   was    constricted.      "Ah, 

,  r   for   me  !'*  he  murmured,   "never   for  me — until 

^  tells   them  to  look   toward  the   Sawdust   Pile   for 

the  master!" 

He  strode  out  to  the  gate  where  his  father's  chauf 
feur  waited  with  the  limousine.  "Take  the  car  home," 
he  ordered,  "and  as  you  pass  through  town  stop  in  at 
the  Central  Garage  and  tell  them  to  send  a  closed  car 
over  to  me  here." 

The  chauffeur  looked  at  him  with  surprise  but 
obeyed  at  once.  By  the  time  the  hired  car  had  arrived 
Nan  and  her  child  were  ready,  and  just  before  locking 
the  house  Nan,  realizing  that  they  would  not  return 
to  the  Sawdust  Pile  until  long  after  nightfall,  hauled 
in  the  flag  that  floated  over  the  little  cupola;  and  for 
the  second  time,  old  Hector,  watching  up  on  the  cliff, 
viewed  this  infallible  portent  of  an  event  out  of  the 
ordinary.  His  hand  trembled  as  he  held  his  marine 
glasses  to  his  blurred  eyes  and  focussed  on  The  Saw 
dust  Fiie,  in  time  to  see  his  son  enter  the  limousine 
with  Nan  Brent  and  her  child — and  even  at  that  dis 
tance  he  could  see  that  the  car  in  which  they  were 
departing  from  the  Sawdust  Pile  was  not  the  one  in 
which  Donald  had  left  The  Dreamerie.  From  that  fact 
alone  The  Laird  deduced  that  his  son  had  made  his 
choice ;  and  because  Donald  was  his  father's  son,  imbued 
with  the  same  fierce  high  pride  and  love  of  inde 
pendence,  he  declined  to  be  under  obligation  to  his 
people  even  for  the  service  of  an  automobile  upon  his 
wedding  day. 

The  Laird  stood  watching  the  car  until  it  was  out 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  317 

of  sight;  then  he  sighed  very  deeply,  entered  the  house 
and  rang  for  the  butler. 

"Tell  Mrs.  McKaye  and  the  young  ladies  that  I 
would  thank  them  to  come  here  at  once/'  he  ordered 
calmly. 

They  came  precipitately,  vaguely  apprehensive.  "My 
dears,"  he  said  in  an  unnaturally  subdued  voice,  "Don 
ald  has  just  left  the  Sawdust  Pile  with  the  Brent  lass 
to  be  married.  He  has  made  his  bed  and  it  is  my  wish 
that  he  shall  lie  in  it." 

"Oh,  Hector!"  Mrs.  McKaye  had  spoken  quaver- 
ingly.  "Oh,  Hector,  dear,  do  not  be  hard  on  him!" 

He  raised  his  great  arm  as  if  to  silence  further 
argument.  "He  has  brought  disgrace  upon  my  house. 
He  is  no  longer  son  of  mine  and  we  are  discussing  him 
for  the  last  time.  Hear  me,  now.  There  will  be  no 
further  mention  of  Donald  in  my  presence  and  I  for 
bid  you,  Nellie,  you,  Elizabeth  and  you,  Jane,  to  have 
aught  to  do  wie  him,  directly  or  indirectly." 

Mrs.  McKaye  sat  down  abruptly  and  commenced  to 
weep  and  wail  her  woe  aloud,  while  Jane  sought  vainly 
to  comfort  her.  Elizabeth  bore  the  news  with  extreme 
fortitude;  with  unexpected  tact  she  took  her  father 
by  the  arm  and  steered  him  outside  and  along  the 
terrace  walk  where  the  agonized  sobs  and  moans  of 
her  mother  could  not  be  heard — for  what  Elizabeth 
feared  in  that  first  great  moment  of  remorse  was  a 
torrent  of  self -accusation  from  her  mother.  If,  as 
her  father  had  stated,  Donald  was  en  route  to  be 
married,  then  the  mischief  was  done  and  no  good 
could  come  out  of  a  confession  to  The  Laird  of  the 
manner  in  which  the  family  honor  had  been  compro 
mised,  not  by  Donald,  but  by  his  mother,  aided  and 


318  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

abetted  by  his  sisters!  The  Laird,  now  quite  dumb 
with  distress,  walked  in  silence  with  his  eldest  daughter, 
vaguely  conscious  of  the  comfort  of  her  company  and 
sympathy  in  his  hour  of  trial. 

When  Elizabeth  could  catch  Jane's  attention 
through  the  window  she  cautiously  placed  her  finger 
on  her  lip  and  frowned  a  warning.  Jane  nodded  her 
comprehension  and  promptly  bore  her  mother  off  to 
bed  where  she  gave  the  poor  soul  some  salutary  advice 
and  left  her  to  the  meager  comfort  of  solitude  and 
smelling  salts. 

Just  before  he  retired  that  night,  The  Laird  saw  a 
light  shine  suddenly  forth  from  the  Sawdust  Pile.  So 
he  knew  his  son  had  selected  a  home  for  his  bride,  and 
rage  and  bitterness  mingled  with  his  grief  and  mangled 
pride  to  such  an  extent  that  he  called  upon  God  to 
take  him  out  of  a  world  that  had  crumbled  about  his 
hoary  head.  He  shook  his  fist  at  the  little  light  that 
blinked  so  far  below  him  and  Mrs.  McKaye,  who  had 
crept  down  stairs  with  a  half-formed  notion  of  con 
fessing  to  The  Laird  in  the  hope  of  mitigating  her 
son's  offense — of,  mother-like,  taking  upon  her  shoul 
ders  an  equal  burden  of  the  blame — caught  a  glimpse 
of  old  Hector's  face,  and  her  courage  failed  her.  Thor 
oughly  frightened  she  returned  noiselessly  to  her  room 
and  wept,  dry-eyed,  for  the  fountain  of  her  tears  had 
long  since  been  exhausted. 

Meanwhile,  down  at  the  Sawdust  Pile,  Nan  was 
putting  her  drowsy  son  to  bed ;  in  the  little  living-room 
her  husband  had  lighted  the  drift-wood  fire  and  had 
drawn  the  old  divan  up  to  the  blue  flames.  He  was 
sitting  writh  his  elbows  on  his  knees  and  his  chin  in  his 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  319 

hands,  outlining  plans  for  their  future,  when  Nan, 
having  put  her  child  to  bed,  came  and  sat  down  beside 
him.  He  glanced  at  her  with  troubled  eyes  and  grinned 
a  trifle  foolishly. 

"Happy?"  he  queried. 

She  nodded.  "In  a  limited  fashion  only,  dear  heart. 
I'm  thinking  how  wonderfully  courageous  you  have  been 
to  marry  me  and  how  tremendously  grateful  I  shall 
always  be  for  your  love  and  faith."  She  captured  his 
right  hand  and  fondled  it  for  a  moment  in  both  of 
hers,  smiling  a  little  thoughtfully  the  while  as  if  at 
some  dear  little  secret.  "Port  Agnew  will  think  I 
married  you  for  money,"  she  resumed  presently ;  "your 
mother  and  sisters  will  think  I  married  you  to  spite 
them  and  your  father  will  think  I  married  you  be 
cause  you  insisted  and  because  I  was  storm-tossed  and 
had  to  find  a  haven  from  the  world.  But  the  real 
reason  is  that  I  love  you  and  know  that  some  day  1 
am  going  to  see  more  happiness  in  your  eyes  than  I 
can  see  to-night." 

Again,  in  that  impulsive  way  she  had,  she  bent  and 
kissed  his  hand.  "Dear  King  Cophetua,"  she  mur 
mured,  "your  beggar  maid  will  never  be  done  with 
adoring  you."  She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  sweet 
and  lovely  wistfulness  shining  in  her  sea-blue  eyes. 
"And  the  sweetest  thing  about  it,  you  angelic  simple 
ton,"  she  added,  "is  that  you  will  never,  never,  never 
know  why." 


XXXXI 

THE  first  hint  of  the  tremendous  events  impending 
came  to  Mr.  Daney  through  the  medium  of  no 
less  an  informant  than  his  wife.  Upon  returning  from 
the  mill  office  on  the  evening  of  Donald  McKaye's 
marriage,  Mr.  Daney  was  met  at  his  front  door  by 
Mrs.  Daney  who  cried  triumphantly: 

"Well,  what  did  I  tell  you  about  Donald  McKaye?" 

Mr.  Daney  twitched  inwardly,  but  answered  com 
posedly.  "Not  one-tenth  of  one  per  cent,  of  what  I 
have  discovered  without  your  valuable  assistance  my 
dear." 

She  wrinkled  the  end  of  her  nose  disdainfully.  "He's 
gone  motoring  with  Nan  Brent  in  a  hired  car,  and  they 
took  the  baby  with  them.  They  passed  through  town 
about  half  past  two  this  afternoon  and  they  haven't 
returned  yet." 

"How  do  you  know  all  this?"  he  demanded  coolly. 

"I  saw  them  as  they  passed  by  on  the  road  below;  I 
recognized  that  rent  limousine  of  the  Central  Garage 
with  Ben  Nicholson  driving  it,  and  a  few  moments  ago 
I  telephoned  the  Central  Garage  and  asked  for  Ben. 
He  hasn't  returned  yet — and  it's  been  dark  for  half 
an  hour." 

"Hum-m-m !    What  do  you  suspect,  my  dear?" 

"The  worst,"  she  replied  dramatically. 

"What  a  wonderful  fall  day  this  has  been,"  he  re 
marked  blandly  as  he  hung  up  his  hat.  She  turned 

320 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  321 

upon  him  a  glance  of  fury ;  he  met  it  with  one  so  calm 
and  impersonal  that  the  good  lady  quite  lost  control 
of  herself.  "Why  do  you  withhold  your  confidence 
from  me?"  she  cried  sharply. 

"Because  you  wouldn't  respect  it,  my  dear;  also,  be 
cause  I'm  paid  to  keep  the  McKaye  secrets  and  you're 
not." 

"Is  he  going  to  marry  her,  Andrew?  Answer  me," 
she  demanded. 

"Unfortunately  for  you,  Mrs.  Daney,  the  young 
gentleman  hasn't  taken  me  into  his  confidence.  Neither 
has  the  young  lady.  Of  course  I  entertain  an  opinion 
on  the  subject,  but  since  I  am  not  given  to  discussing 
the  intimate  personal  affairs  of  other  people,  you'll 
excuse  my  reticence  on  this  subject,  I'm  sure.  I  repeat 
that  this  has  been  a  wonderful  fall  day." 

She  burst  into  tears  of  futile  rage  and  went  to  her 
room.  Mr.  Daney  partook  of  his  dinner  in  solitary 
state  and  immediately  after  dinner  strolled  down  town 
and  loitered  around  the  entrance  to  the  Central  Garage 
until  he  saw  Ben  Nicholson  drive  in  about  ten  o'clock. 

"Hello,  Ben,"  he  hailed  the  driver  as  Ben  descended 
from  his  seat.  "I  hear  you've  been  pulling  off  a  wed- 
ding." 

Ben  Nicholson  lowered  his  voice  and  spoke  out  the 
corner  of  his  mouth.  "What  do  you  know  about  the 
young  Laird,  eh,  Mr.  Daney?  Say  I  could  V  cried 
to  see  him  throwin'  himself  awtiy  on  that  Jane." 

Mr.  Daney  shrugged.  "Oh,  veil,  boys  will  be  boys," 
he  declared.  "The  bigger  thev  are  the  harder  they 
fall.  Of  course,  Ben,  you  understand  I'm  not  in  posi 
tion  to  say  anything,  one  way  or  the  other,"  he  added 
parenthetically,  and  Ben  Nicholson  nodded  compre- 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

hension.  Thereupon  Mr.  Daney  sauntered  over  to  the 
cigar  stand  in  the  hotel,  loaded  his  cigar  case  and 
vent  down  to  his  office,  where  he  sat  until  midnight, 
smoking  and  thinking.  The  sole  result  of  his  cogita 
tions,  however,  he  summed  up  in  a  remark  he  directed 
at  the  cuspidor  just  before  he  went  home: 

"Well,  there's  blood  on  the  moon  and  hell  will  pop 
in  the  morning." 

For  the  small  part  he  had  played  in  bringing  Nan 
Brent  back  to  Port  Agnew,  the  general  manager  fully 
expected  to  be  dismissed  from  the  McKaye  service 
within  thirty  seconds  after  old  Hector  should  reach 
the  mill  office;  hence  with  the  heroism  born  of  twelve 
hours  of  preparation  he  was  at  his  desk  at  eight  o'clock 
next  morning.  At  nine  o'clock  The  Laird  came  in  and 
Mr.  Daney  saw  by  his  face  instantly  that  old  Hector 
knew.  The  general  manager  rose  at  his  desk  and  bowed 
with  great  dignity. 

"Moritori  salutamus,  sir,"  he  announced  gravely. 

"What  the  devil  are  you  talking  about,  Daney?" 
The  Laird  demanded  irritably. 

"That's  what  the  gladiators  used  to  say  to  the 
Roman  populace.  It  means,  I  believe,  'We  who  are 
about  to  die,  salute  you.'  Here  is  my  resignation,  Mr. 
McKaye." 

"Don't  be  an  ass,  Andrew,"  The  Laird  commanded 
and  threw  the  proffered  resignation  into  the  waste 
basket.  "Why  should  you  resign?" 

"To  spare  the  trouble  of  discharging  me,  sir." 

"What  for?" 

"Bringing  the  Brent  girl  back  to  Port  Agnew.  If  I 
hadn't  gotten  her  address  from  Dirty  Dan  I  would 
never  have  suggested  to " 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  323 

"Enough.  We  will  not  discuss  what  might  have 
been,  Andrew.  The  boy  has  married  her,  and  since 
the  blow  has  fallen  nothing  that  preceded  it  is  of  the 
slightest  importance.  What  I  have  called  to  say  to 
you  is  this:  Donald  McKaye  is  no  longer  connected 
with  the  Tyee  Lumber  Company." 

"Oh,  come,  come,  sir,"  Daney  pleaded.  "The  mis 
chief  is  done.  You'll  have  to  forgive  the  boy  and  make 
the  best  of  a  bad  business.  What  can't  be  cured  must 
be  endured,  you  know." 

"Not  necessarily.  And  you  might  spare  me  your 
platitude,  Andrew,"  The  Laird  replied  savagely.  "I'm 
done  with  the  lad  forever,  for  son  of  mine  he  is  no 
longer.  Andrew,  do  you  remember  the  time  he  bought 
that  red  cedar  stumpage  up  on  the  Wiskah  and  un 
loaded  it  on  me  at  a  profit  of  two  hundred  thousand 
dollars?" 

Mr.  Daney  nodded.  "And  you,  in  turn,  sold  it  at 
a  profit  of  fifty  thousand,"  he  reminded  the  irate  old 
man. 

"Donald  did  not  retain  that  profit  he  made  at  my 
expense.  'Twas  just  a  joke  with  him.  He  put  the 
money  into  bonds  and  sent  them  to  you  with  instruc 
tions  to  place  them  in  my  vault  for  my  account."  Mr. 
Daney  nodded  and  The  Laird  resumed.  "Take  those 
bonds  to  the  Sawdust  Pile,  together  with  a  check  for 
all  the  interest  collected  on  the  coupons  since  they 
came  into  my  possession,  and  tell  him  from  me  that 
I'll  take  it  kindly  of  him  to  leave  Port  Agnew  and 
make  a  start  for  himself  elsewhere  as  quickly  as  he 
can.  He  owes  it  to  his  family  not  to  affront  it  by  his 
presence  in  Port  Agnew,  giving  ground  for  gossip  and 
scandal  and  piling  needless  sorrow  upon  us.  And 


324  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

when  the  Sawdust  Pile  is  again  vacant  you  will  re 
move  the  Brent  house  and  put  in  the  drying  yard 
you've  planned  this  many  a  year." 

"Very  well,  sir.  It's  not  a  task  to  my  liking,  but — " 
His  pause  was  eloquent. 

"Have  my  old  desk  put  in  order  for  me.  I'm  back 
in  the  harness  and  back  to  stay,  and  at  that  I'm  not 
so  certain  it  isn't  the  best  thing  for  me,  under  the 
present  circumstances.  I  dare  say,"  he  added,  with  a 
sudden  change  of  tone,  "the  news  is  all  over  Port 
Agnew  this  morning.'* 

Mr.  Daney  nodded. 

"You  will  procure  Donald's  resignation  as  President 
and  have  him  endorse  the  stock  I  gave  him  in  order  to 
qualify  as  a  director  of  the  company.  We'll  hold  a 
directors'  meeting  this  afternoon  and  I'll  step  back 
into  the  presidency.'* 

"Very  well,  sir.'* 

"You  will  cause  a  notice  to  be  prepared  for  my  sig 
nature,  to  be  spread  on  the  bulletin  board  in  each 
department,  to  the  effect  that  Donald  McKaye  is  no 
longer  connected  in  any  way  with  the  Tyee  Lumber 
Company." 

"Damn  it,  man,"  Daney  roared  wrathfully,  "have 
you  no  pride?  Why  wash  your  dirty  linen  in  public?" 

"You  are  forgetting  yourself,  my  good  Andrew.  If 
you  do  not  wish  to  obey  my  orders  I  shall  have  little 
difficulty  inducing  your  assistant  to  carry  out  my 
wishes,  I'm  thinking."  The  Laird's  voice  was  calm 
enough;  apparently  he  had  himself  under  perfect  con 
trol,  but — the  Blue-Bonncts-coming-over-tlie-Border 
look  was  in  his  fierce  gray  eyes :  under  his  bushy  iron- 
gray  brows  ^they  burned  like  cf-mpfires  in  twin  caverns 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  325 

at  night.  His  arms,  bowed  belligerently,  hung  tense 
at  his  side,  his  great  hands  opened  and  closed,  a  little 
to  the  fore;  he  licked  his  lips  and  in  the  brief  silence 
that  followed  ere  Mr.  Daney  got  up  and  started  fum 
bling  with  the  combination  to  the  great  vault  in  the 
corner,  old  Hector's  breath  came  in  short  snorts.  He 
turned  and,  still  in  the  same  attitude,  watched  Daney 
while  the  latter  twirled  and  fumbled  and  twirled.  Poor 
man!  He  knew  The  Lird's  baleful  glance  was  boring 
into  his  back  and  for  the  life  of  him  he  could  not  remem 
ber  the  combination  he  had  used  for  thirty  years. 

Suddenly  he  abandoned  all  pretense  and  turned  sav 
agely  on  The  Laird. 

"Get  out  of  my  office,"  he  yelled.  "I  work  for  you, 
Hector  McKaye,  but  I  give  you  value  received  and  in 
this  office  I'm  king  and  be  damned  to  you."  His  voice 
rose  to  a  shrill,  childish  treble  that  presaged  tears  of 
rage.  "You'll  be  sorry  for  this,  you  hard-hearted  man. 
Please  God  I'll  live  to  see  the  day  your  dirty  Scotch 
pride  will  be  humbled  and  you'll  go  to  that  wonderful 
boy  and  his  wife  and  plead  for  forgiveness.  Why, 
you  poor,  pitiful,  pusillanimous  old  pachyderm,  if  the 
boy  has  dishonored  you  he  has  honored  himself.  He's 
a  gallant  young  gentleman,  that's  what  he  is.  He  has 
more  guts  than  a  bear.  He's  married  the  girl,  damn 
yOU — an(i  that's  more  than  you  would  have  done  at  his 
age.  Ah,  don't  talk  to  me !  We  were  young  together 
and  I  know  the  game  you  played  forty  years  ago  with 
the  girl  at  the  Rat  Portage — yes,  you — you  with  your 
youth  and  your  hot  passions — turning  your  big  proud 
back  on  your  peculiar  personal  god  to  wallow  in  sin 
and  enjoy  it.'* 

"But  I — I  was  a  single  man  then,"  The  Laird  sput- 


326  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

tered,  almost  inarticulate  with  fury  and  astonishment. 

"He  was  a  single  man  yesterday  but  he's  a  married 
man  to-day.  And  she  loves  him.  She  adores  him.  You 
can  see  it  in  her  eyes  when  his  name  is  mentioned.  And 
she  had  no  reason  to  behave  herself,  had  she?  She  has 
behaved  herself  for  three  long  years,  but  did  she  win 
anybody's  approbation  for  doing  it?  I'm  telling  you 
a  masterful  man  like  him  might  have  had  her  without 
the  wedding  ring,  for  love's  sake,  if  he'd  cared  to  play 
a  waiting  game  and  stack  the  cards  on  her.  After  all, 
she's  human." 

Suddenly  he  commenced  to  weep  with  fury,  the  tears 
cascading  into  his  whiskers  making  him  look  singularly 
ridiculous  in  comparison  with  the  expression  on  his 
face,  which  was  anything  but  grievous.  "Marriage ! 
Marriage !"  he  croaked.  "I  know  what  it  is.  I  married 
a  fat-head — and  so  did  my  wife.  We've  never  known 
romance;  never  had  anything  but  a  quiet,  well-ordered 
existence.  I've  dwelt  in  repression;  never  got  out  of 
life  a  single  one  of  those  thrills  that  comes  of  doing 
something  daring  and  original  and  nasty.  Never  had 
an  adventure;  never  had  a  woman  look  at  me  like  I 
was  a  god;  married  at  twenty  and  never  knew  the 
Grand  Passion."  He  threw  up  his  arms.  "Gh-h-h, 
God-d-d !  If  I  could  only  be  young  again  I'd  be  a  devil ! 
Praise  be,  I  know  one  man  with  guts  enough  to  tell  'em 
all  to  go  to  hell." 

With  a  peculiar  little  moving  cry  he  started  for  the 
door. 

"Andrew,"  The  Laird  cried  anxiously.  "Where  are 
you  going?" 

"None  of  your  infernal  business,"  the  rebel  shrilled, 
"but  if  you  must  know,  I'm  going  down  to  the  Saw- 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  327 

dust  Pile  to  kiss  the  bride  and  shake  a  man's  hand  and 
wish  him  well.  After  Pve  done  that  I'll  deliver  your 
message.  Mark  me,  he'll  never  take  those  bonds." 

"Of  course  he  will,  you  old  fool.  They  belong  to 
him." 

"But  he  refused  to  make  a  profit  at  the  expense  of 
his  own  father.  He  gave  them  to  you  and  he's  not  an 
Indian  giver." 

"Andrew,  I  have  never  known  you  to  act  in  such  a 
peculiar  manner.  Are  you  crazy?  Of  course  he'll  take 
them.  He'll  have  to  take  them  in  order  to  get  out  of 
Port  Agnew.  I  doubt  if  he  has  a  dollar  in  the  world." 

Mr.  Daney  beat  his  chest  gorilla  fashion.  "He 
doesn't  need  a  dollar.  Boy  and  man,  I've  loved  that — 
ahem!  son  of  yours.  Why,  he  always  did  have  guts. 
Keep  your  filthy  money.  The  boy's  credit  is  good  with 
me.  I'm  no  pauper,  even  I  if  do  work  for  you.  I 
work  for  fun.  Understand.*  Or  do  you,  Hector  Mc- 
Kaye?" 

"If  you  dare  to  loan  my  son  as  much  as  a  thin  dime 
I'll  fire  you  out  of  hand." 

Mr.  Daney  jeered.  "How?"  he  demanded  very  dis 
tinctly,  and  yet  with  a  queer,  unusual  blending  of  the 
sentence  with  a  single  word,  as  if  the  very  force  of 
his  breath  had  telescoped  every  syllable,  "would  you 
like  to  stand  off  in  that  corner  there  and  take  a  long 
runnin'  jump  at  yourself,  proud  father?" 

"Out  of  this  office !     You're  fired." 

Mr.  Daney  dashed  the  tears  from  his  whiskers  and 
blew  his  nose.  Then  he  pulled  himself  together  with 
dignity  and  bowed  so  low  he  lost  his  center  of  gravity 
and  teetered  a  little  on  his  toes  before  recovering 
his  balance.  "Fired  is  GOOD,"  he  declared.  "Where 


328  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

do  you  get  that  stuff,  eh?  My  dear  old  Furiosity, 
ain't  my  resignation  in  the  wastebasket?  Good-by, 
good  luck  and  may  the  good  Lord  give  you  the  sense 
God  gives  geese.  I'm  a  better  man  than  you  are,  Gunga 
Din." 

The  door  banged  open.  Then  it  banged  shut  and 
The  Laird  was  alone.  The  incident  was  closed.  The 
impossible  had  come  to  pass.  For  the  strain  had  been 
too  great,  and  at  nine  o'clock  on  a  working  day  morn 
ing,  steady,  reliable,  dependable,  automatic  Andrew 
Daney  having  imbibed  Dutch  courage  in  lieu  of  Na 
ture's  own  brand,  was,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
jingled  to  an  extent  comparable  to  that  of  a  boiled  owl. 

Mr.  Daney's  assistant  thrust  his  head  in  the  door,  to 
disturb  The  Laird's  cogitations.  "The  knee-bolters 
went  out  at  the  shingle  mill  this  morning,  sir,"  he  an 
nounced.  %"They  want  a  six  and  a  half  hour  day  and 
a  fifty  per  cent,  increase  in  wages,  with  a  whole  holiday 
on  Saturday.  There's  a  big  Russian  red  down  there 
exhorting  them." 

"Send  Dirty  Dan  to  me.     Quick !" 

A  telephonic  summons  to  the  loading  shed  brought 
Daniel  P.  O'Leary  on  the  run.  "Come  with  me,  Dan," 
The  Laird  commanded,  and  started  for  the  shingle 
mill.  On  the  way  down  he  stopped  at  the  warehouse 
and  selected  a  new  double-bitted  ax  which  he  handed  to 
Dirty  Dan.  Mr.  O'Leary  received  the  weapon  in 
silence  and  trotted  along  at  The  Laird's  heels  like  a 
faithful  dog,  until,  upon  arrival  at  the  shingle  mill  the 
astute  Hibernian  took  in  the  situation  at  a  glance. 

"Sure,  'tis  no  compliment  you've  paid  me,  sor,  think- 
in'  I'll  be  afther  needin'  an  ax  to  take  that  fella's  meas 
ure,"  he  protested. 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

"Your  job  is  to  keep  those  other  animals  off  me  while 
/  take  his  measure,"  The  Laird  corrected  him. 

Without  an  instant's  hesitation  Dirty  Dan  swung  his 
ax  and  charged  the  crowd.  "Gower  that,  ye  vaga- 
bones,"  he  screeched.  As  he  passed  the  Russian  he 
seized  the  latter  by  the  collar,  swung  him  and  threw 
him  bodily  toward  old  Hector,  who  received  him  greed 
ily  and  drew  him  to  his  heart.  The  terrible  O'Leary 
then  stood  over  the  battling  pair,  his  ax  poised,  the 
while  he  hurled  insult  and  anathema  at  the  knee-bolters. 
A  very  large  percentage  of  knee-bolters  and  shingle 
weavers  are  members  of  the  I.  W.  W.  and  knowing  this, 
Mr.  O'Leary  begged  in  dulcet  tones,  to  be  informed  why 
in  this  and  that  nobody  seemed  willing  to  lift  a  hand 
to  rescue  the  Little  Comrade.  He  appeared  to  be 
keenly  disappointed  because  nobody  tried,  albeit  other 
axes  were  quite  plentiful  thereabouts. 

Presently  The  Laird  got  up  and  dusted  the  splinters 
and  sawdust  from  his  clothing ;  the  Red,  battered  terri 
bly,  lay  weltering  in  his  blood.  "I  feel  better  now," 
said  The  Laird.  "This  is  just  what  I  needed  this 
morning  to  bring  me  out  of  myself.  Help  yourself, 
Dan,"  and  he  made  a  dive  at  the  nearest  striker,  who 
fled,  followed  by  his  fellow-strikers,  all  hotly  pursued 
by  The  Laird  and  the  demon  Daniel. 

The  Laird  returned,  puffing  slightly,  to  his  office  and 
once  more  sat  in  at  his  own  desk.  As  he  remarked  to 
Dirty  Dan,  he  felt  better  now.  All  his  resentment 
against  Daney  had  fled  but  his  resolution  to  pursue 
his  contemplated  course  with  reference  to  his  son  and 
the  latter's  wife  had  become  firmer  than  ever.  In 
some  ways  The  Laird  was  a  terrible  old  man. 


XXXXII 

NAN  was  not  at  all  surprised  when,  upon  responding 
to  a  peremptory  knock  at  her  front  door  she  dis 
covered  Andrew  Daney  standing  without.^  The  general 
manager,  after  his  stormy  interview  with  The  Laird 
had  spent  two  hours  in  the  sunny  lee  of  a  lumber  pile, 
waiting  for  the  alcoholic  fogs  to  lift  from  his  brain, 
for  he  had  had  sense  enough  left  to  realize  that  all  was 
not  well  with  him;  he  desired  to  have  his  tongue  in 
order  when  he  should  meet  the  bride  and  groom. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Daney ,"  Nan  greeted  him.  "Do 
come  in." 

"Good  morning,  Mrs.  McKaye.  Thank  you.  I  shall 
with  pleasure." 

He  followed  her  down  the  little  hallway  to  the  liv 
ing  room  where  Donald  sat  with  his  great  thin  legs 
stretched  out  toward  the  fire. 

"Don't  rise,  boy,  don't  rise,"  Mr.  Daney  protested. 
"I  merely  called  to  kiss  the  bride  and  shake  your 
hand,  my  boy.  The  visit  is  entirely  friendly  and  un 
official." 

"Mr.  Daney,  you're  a  dear,"  Nan  cried,  and  pre 
sented  her  fair  cheek  for  the  tribute  he  claimer, 

"Shake  hands  with  a  rebel,  boy,"  Mr.  Danev  cried 
heartily  to  Donald.  "God  bless  you  and  may  you 
alvays  be  happier  than  you  are  this  minute." 

Donald  wrung  the  Daney  digits  with  a  heartiness  he 
would  not  have  thought  possible  a  month  before. 

"I've  quarreled  with  your  father,  Donald,"  he 
330 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  331 

announced,  seating  himself.  "Over  you — and  you,"  he 
added,  nodding  brightly  at  both  young  people.  "He 
thinks  he's  fired  me."  He  paused,  glanced  around, 
coughed  a  couple  of  times  and  came  out  with  it.  "Well* 
what  are  you  going  to  do  now  to  put  tobacco  in  your 
old  tobacco  box,  Donald?" 

Donald  smiled  sadly.  "Oh,  Nan  still  has  a  few  dollars 
left  from  that  motor-boat  swindle  you  perpetrated,  Mr. 
Daney.  She'll  take  'care  of  me  for  a  couple  of  weeks 
until  I'm  myself  again ;  then,  if  my  father  still  proves 
recalcitrant  and  declines  to  have  me  connected  with 
the  Tyee  Lumber  Company,  I'll  manage  to  make  a 
living  for  Nan  and  the  boy  somewhere  else." 

Briefty  Mr.  Daney  outlined  The  Laird's  expressed 
course  of  action  with  regard  to  his  son. 

"He  means  it,"  Donald  assured  the  general  manager. 
"He  never  bluffs.  He  gave  me  plenty  of  warning 
and  his  decision  has  not  been  arrived  at  in  a  hurry. 
He's  through  with  me." 

"I  fear  he  is,  my  boy.  Er-ah-ahem !  Harumph-h-h  ! 
Do  you  remember  those  bonds  you  sent  me  from  New 
York  once — the  proceeds  of  your  deal  in  that  Wiskah 
river  cedar?" 

"Yes." 

"Your  father  desires  that  you  accept  the  entire  two 
hundred  thousand  dollars  worth  and  accrued  interest." 

"Why?" 

"Well,  I  suppose  he  thinks  they'll  come  in  handy 
when  you  leave  Port  Agnew." 

"Well,  I'm  not  going  to  leave  Port  Agnew,  Andrew." 

"Your  father  instructed  me  to  say  to  you  that  he 
would  take  it  kindly  of  you  to  do  so — for  obvious  rea- 


3S2  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

"I  appreciate  his  point  of  view,  but  since  he  has 
kicked  me  out  he  has  no  claim  on  my  sympathies — at 
least  not  to  the  extent  of  forcing  his  point  of  view  and 
causing  me  to  abandon  my  own.  Please  say  to  my 
father  that  since  I  cannot  have  his  forgiveness  I  do  not 
want  his  bonds  or  his  money.  Tell  him  also,  please, 
that  I'm  not  going  to  leave  Port  Agnew,  because  that 
would  predicate  a  sense  of  guilt  on  my  part  and  lend 
some  support  to  the  popular  assumption  that  my  wife 
is  not  a  virtuous  woman.  I  could  not  possibly  oblige 
my  father  on  this  point  because  to  do  so  would  be  a 
violent  discourtesy  to  my  wife.  I  am  not  ashamed  of 
her,  you  know." 

Mr.  Daney  gnawed  his  thumb  nail  furiously.  "  'The 
wicked  flee  when  no  man  pursueth',"  he  quoted.  "How 
ever,  Mr3  Donald,  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  if  your 
father  should  forbid  it,  a  dicky  bird  couldn't  make  a 
living  in  this  town." 

"There  are  no  such  restrictions  in  Darrow,  Mr. 
Daney.  The  superintendent  up  there  will  give  me  a 
job  on  the  river." 

Mr.  Daney  could  not  forbear  an  expression  of 
horror.  "Hector  McKaye's  son  a  river  hog !"  he  cried 
incredulously. 

"Well,  Donald  McKaye's  father  was  a  river  hog, 
wasn't  he?'* 

"Oh,  but  times  have  changed  since  Hector  was  a 
pup,  my  boy.  Why,  this  is  dreadful." 

"No,  Mr.  Daney.  Merely  unusual." 

"Well,  Donald,  I  think  your  father  will  raise  the 
ante  considerably  in  order  to  avoid  that  added  dis 
grace  and  force  you  to  listen  to  reason." 

"If  he  does,  sir,  please  spare  yourself  the  trouble  o£ 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  333 

bearing  his  message.  Neither  Nan  nor  I  is  for  sale, 
sir," 

"I  told  him  you'd  decline  the  bonds.  However,  Mr. 
Donald,  there  is  no  reason  in  life  why  you  shouldn't 
get  money  from  me  whenever  you  want  it.  Thanks  to 
your  father  I'm  worth  more  than  a  hundred  thousand 
myself,  although  you'd  never  guess  it.  Your  credit  is 
A-l  with  me." 

"I  shall  be  your  debtor  for  life  because  of  that 
speech,  Mr.  Daney.  Any  news  from  my  mother  and 
the  girls?" 

"None." 

"Well,  I'll  stand  by  for  results,"  Donald  assured 
him  gravely. 

"Do  not  expect  any." 

"I  don't." 

Mr.  Daney  fidgeted  and  finally  said  he  guessed  he'd 
better  be  trotting  along,  and  Donald  and  Nan,  realiz 
ing  it  would  be  no  kindness  to  him  to  be  polite  and 
assure  him  there  was  no  need  of  hurry,  permitted  him 
to  depart  forthwith. 

"I  think,  sweetheart,"  Donald  announced  with  a 
pained  little  smile,  as  he  returned  from  seeing  Mr. 
Daney  to  the  front  gate,  "that  it  wouldn't  be  a  half 
bad  idea  for  you  to  sit  in  at  that  old  piano  and  play 
and  sing  for  me.  I  think  I'd  like  something  light  and 
lilting.  What's  that  Kipling  thing  that's  been  set  to 
music  ? 

So  we  went  strolling, 

Down  by  the  rolling,  down  by  the  rolling  sea, 
You  may  keep  your  croak  for  other  folk 
But  you  can't  frighten  me ! 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

He  lighted  a  cigarette  and  stretched  himself  out  on 
the  old  divan.  She  watched  him  blowing  smoke  rings  at 
the  ceiling — and  there  was  no  music  in  her  soul. 

In  the  afternoon  the  McKaye  limousine  drew  up  at 
the  front  gate  and  Nan's  heart  fluttered  violently  in 
contemplation  of  a  visit  from  her  husband's  mother 
and  sisters.  She  need  not  have  worried,  however.  The 
interior  of  the  car  was  unoccupied  save  for  Donald's 
clothing  and  personal  effects  which  some  thoughtful 
person  at  The  Dreamerie  had  sent  down  to  him.  He 
hazarded  a  guess  that  the  cool  and  practical  Elizabeth 
had  realized  his  needs. 


XXXXIII 

RETURNING  to  the  mill  office,  Mr.  Daney  sat 
at  his  desk  and  started  to  look  over  the  mail. 
The  Laird  heard  his  desk  buzzer  sounding  frequently 
and  rightly  conjecturing  that  his  general  manager  was 
back  on  the  job,  he  came  into  the  latter's  office  and 
glared  at  him. 

"I  thought  I  fired  you?"  he  growled. 

"I  know.  You  thought  you  did,"  the  rebel  replied 
complacently.  "I  see  by  your  knuckles  you're  been 
fighting.  Hope  it  did  you  good." 

"It  did.     Are  you  going  to  leave  this  office?" 

"No,   sir." 

"I  didn't  think  you  would.    Well,  well !    Out  with  it." 

Mr.  Daney  drew  a  deal  of  pleasure  from  that  invita 
tion.  "The  boy  directs  me  to  inform  you,  sir,  that  he 
will  not  accept  the  bonds  nor  any  monies  you  may 
desire  to  give  him.  He  says  he  doesn't  need  them  be 
cause  he  isn't  going  to  leave  Port  Agnew." 

"Nonsense,  Andrew.  He  cannot  remain  in  this  town. 
He  hasn't  the  courage  to  face  his  little  world  after 
marrying  that  girl.  And  he  has  to  make  a  living  for 
her." 

"We  shall  see  that  which  we  shall  se,"  Mr.  Daney 
replied  enigmatically. 

"I  wonder  if  it  is  possible  he  is  trying  to  outgame 
me,"  old  Hector  mused  aloud.  "Andrew,  go  back  and 
tell  him  that  if  he  will  go  to  California  to  live  I  will  deed 

335 


336  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

him  that  Lasscn  county  sugar  and  white  pine  and  build 
him  the  finest  mill  in  the  state." 

"The  terms  are  quite  impossible,"  Daney  retorted 
and  explained  why. 

"He  shall  get  out  of  Port  Agnew,"  The  Laird  threat 
ened.  "He  shall  get  out  or  starve." 

"You  are  forgetting  something,  sir." 

"Forgetting  what?" 

"That  I  have  more  than  a  hundred  thousand  dollars 
in  bonds  right  in  that  vault  and  that  I  have  not  as  yet 
developed  paralysis  of  the  right  hand.  The  boy  shall 
not  starve  and  neither  shall  he  crawl,  like  a  beaten  dog 
currying  favor  with  the  one  that  has  struck  him." 

"I  am  the  one  who  has  been  struck — and  he  has 
wounded  me  sorely,"  The  Laird  cried,  his  voice  cracked 
with  anger. 

"The  mischief  is  done.  What's  the  use  of  crying 
over  spilled  milk?  You're  going  to  forgive  the  boy 
sooner  or  later,  so  do  it  now  and  be  graceful  about  it." 

"I'll  never  forgive  him,  Andrew." 

Mr.  Daney  walled  his  eyes  toward  the  ceiling. 
"Thank  God,"  he  murmured  piously,  "I'm  pure.  Here 
after,  every  time  Reverend  Mr.  Tingley  says  the  Lord's 
prayer  I'm  going  to  cough  out  loud  in  church  at  the 
line:  'Forgive  us  our  trespasses  as  we  forgive  those 
who  trespass  against  us.'  You'll  hear  that  cough  and 
remember,  Hector  McKaye." 

A  deeper  shadow  of  distress  settled  over  The  Laird's 
stern  features.  "You're  uncommon  mean  to  me  this 
bitter  day,  Andrew,"  he  complained  wearily.  "I  take 
it  ss  most  unkind  of  you  to  thwart  my  wishes  like 
this." 

"I'm    for   true   love!"    Mr.    Daney   declared    firmly- 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  337 

"Ah  come,  come  now !  Don't  be  a  stiff-necked  old  dodo. 
Forgive  the  boy." 

"In  time  I  may  forgive  him,  Andrew.  I'm  not  sure 
of  myself  where  he  is  concerned,  but  we  canna  receive 
the  girl.  'Tis  not  in  reason  that  we  should." 

"I  believe  I'll  cough  twice,"  Daney  murmured  mus 
ingly. 

And  the  following  day  being  Sunday,  he  did !  He  sat 
two  rows  behind  the  McKaye  family  pew  but  across 
the  aisle,  and  in  a  cold  fury  The  Laird  turned  to 
squelch  him  with  a  look.  What  he  saw  in  the  Daney 
pew,  however,  chilled  his  fury  and  threw  him  into  a 
veritable  panic  of  embarrassment.  For  to  the  right 
of  the  incomprehensible  general  manager  sat  the  young 
ex-laird  of  Port  Agnew ;  at  Daney's  left  the  old  Laird 
beheld  his  new  daughter-in-law,  while  further  down  the 
pew  as  far  as  she  could  retreat,  Mrs.  Daney,  with  face 
aflame,  sat  rigid,  her  bovine  countenance  upraised  and 
her  somewhat  vacuous  glance  fixed  unblinkingly  at  a 
point  some  forty  feet  over  Mr.  Tingley's  pious  head. 
Donald  intercepted  the  old  man's  amazed  and  troubled 
glance,  and  smiled  at  his  father  with  his  eyes — an 
affectionate  overture  that  was  not  lost  on  The  Laird 
ere  he  jerked  his  head  and  eyes  once  more  to  the 
front. 

Mrs.  McKaye  and  her  two  daughters  were  as  yet 
unaware  of  the  horror  that  impended.  But  not  for 
long.  When  the  congregation  stood  to  sing  the  final 
hymn,  Nan's  wondrous  mezzo-soprano  rose  clear  and 
sweet  over  the  indifferent-toned  notes  of  every  other 
woman  present;  to  the  most  dull  it  would  have  been 
obvious  that  there  was  a  trained  singer  present,  and 
Mrs.  McKaye  and  her  daughters  each  cast  a  covert 


338  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

glance  in  the  direction  of  the  voice.  However,  since 
every  other  woman  in  the  church  was  gazing  at  Nan, 
nobody  observed  the  effect  of  her  presence  upon  the 
senior  branch  of  the  McKaye  family,  for  which  small 
blessing  the  family  in  question  was  duly  grateful. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  service  old  Hector  remained 
in  his  pew  until  the  majority  of  the  congregation  had 
filed  out ;  then,  assuring  himself  by  a  quick  glance,  that 
his  son  and  the  latter's  wife  had  preceded  him,  he  fol 
lowed  with  Mrs.  McKaye  and  the  girls.  From  the 
church  steps  he  observed  Donald  and  Nan  walking 
home,  while  Mr.  Daney  and  his  outraged  spouse  fol 
lowed  some  twenty  feet  behind  them.  Quickly  The 
Laird  and  his  family  entered  the  waiting  limousine;  it 
was  the  first  occasion  that  anybody  could  remember 
when  he  had  not  lingered  to  shake  hands  with  Mr. 
Tingley  and,  perchance,  congratulate  him  on  the  excel 
lence  of  his  sermon. 

They  were  half  way  up  the  cliff  road  before  anybody 
spoke.  Then,  with  a  long  preliminary  sigh,  The  Laird 
voiced  the  thought  that  obsessed  them  all. 

"That  damned  mutton-head,  Daney.  I'd  run  him 
out  of  the  Tyee  employ  if  it  would  do  a  bit  of  good. 
I  cannot  run  him  out  of  town  or  out  of  church." 

"The  imbecile !"  Elizabeth  raged.  Jane  was  dumb 
with  shame  and  rage  and  Mrs.  McKaye  was  sniffling  a 
little.  Presently  she  said: 

"How  dare  he  bring  her  right  into  church  with 
him,"  she  cried  brokenly.  "Right  before  everybody. 
Oh,  dear,  oh  dear,  is  my  son  totally  lacking  in  a  sense 
of  decency?  This  is  terrible,  terrible." 

"I  shall  not  risk  such  another  awful  Sunday  morn 
ing,"  Elizabeth  announced. 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  339 

"Nor  I,"  Jane  cried  with  equal  fervor. 

"We  shall  have  to  leave  Port  Agnew  now,"  Mrs. 
McKaye  sobbed. 

Old  Hector  patted  her  hand.  "Yes,  I  think  you'll 
have  to,  Nellie.  Unfortunately,  I  cannot  go  with  you. 
Daney  doesn't  appear  to  be  quite  sane  of  late  and  with 
Donald  out  of  the  business  I'm  chained  to  a  desk  for 
the  remainder  of  my  life.  I  fear,  however,"  he  added 
savagely,  "I  do  not  intend  to  let  that  woman  run  me 
out  of  my  own  church.  Not  by  a  damned  sight !" 

The  instant  they  entered  the  house,  rightly  conjec 
turing  that  the  Daneys  had  also  reached  their  home, 
Mrs.  McKaye  went  to  the  telephone  and  proceeded  to 
inform  Mr.  Daney  of  the  opinion  which  the  McKaye 
family,  jointly  and  severally,  entertained  for  his  idea 
of  comedy.  Daney  listened  respectfully  to  all  she  had 
to  say  touching  his  sanity,  his  intelligence,  his  sense 
of  decency,  and  his  loyalty  to  Hector  and  when,  stung 
because  he  made  no  defense,  she  asked:  "Have  you  no 
explanation  to  make  us  for  your  extraordinary  be 
havior?"  he  replied: 

"I  am  an  usher  of  our  church,  Mrs.  McKaye.  When 
Donald  and  his  wife  entered  the  church  the  only  va 
cant  seats  in  it  were  in  my  pew;  the  only  person  in  the 
church  who  would  not  have  felt  a  sense  of  outrage  at 
having  your  daughter-in-law  seated  with  his  or  her 
family,  was  my  self-sacrificing  self.  I  could  not  be 
discourteous  to  Donald  and  I'm  quite  certain  his  wife 
has  as  much  right  in  our  church  as  you  have.  So  I 
shooed  them  both  up  to  my  pew,  to  the  great  distress 
of  Mrs.  Daney." 

"You  should  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  Andrew.  You 
should  J" 


340  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

"I'm  not  ashamed  of  myself,  Mrs.  McKaye.  Fve  been 
a  pussy-foot  all  my  life.  I  had  to  do  something  I 
knew  would  detract  from  my  popularity,  but  since  I 
had  to  do  it  I  decided  to  do  it  promptly  and  as  if  I 
enjoyed  it.  Surely  you  would  not  have  commended  me 
had  I  met  the  young  couple  at  the  door  and  said  to 
them:  'Get  out  of  this  church.  It  is  not  for  such  as 
you.  However,  if  you  insist  upon  staying,  you'll  have 
to  stand  up  or  else  sit  down  on  the  floor.  Nobody  here 
wants  to  sit  with  you.  They're  afraid,  too,  they'll 
offend  the  Chief  Pooh-bah  of  this  town'." 

"You  could  have  pretended  you  did  not  see  them." 

"My  dear  Mrs.  McKaye,"  Daney  retorted  in  even 

tones,  "do  you  wish  me  to  inform  your  husband  of  a 

certain    long    distance    telephone    conversation?        If 

go 59 

She  hung  up  without  waiting  to  say  good-by,  and 
the  following  day  she  left  for  Seattle,  accompanied  by 
her  daughters. 

Throughout  the  week  The  Laird  forbore  mentioning 
his  son's  name  to  Mr.  Daney ;  indeed,  he  refrained  from 
addressing  the  latter  at  all  unless  absolutely  necessary 
to  speak  to  him  directly — wherefore  Daney  knew  him 
self  to  be  blacklisted.  On  the  following  Sunday  The 
Laird  sat  alone  in  the  family  pew  and  Mr.  Daney  did 
not  cough  during  the  recital  of  the  Lord's  prayer,  so 
old  Hector  managed  to  conquer  a  tremendous  yearning 
to  glance  around  for  the  reason.  Also,  as  on  the  pre 
vious  Sunda}',  he  was  in  no  hurry  to  leave  his  pew  at 
the  conclusion  of  the  service,  yet,  to  his  profound  irri 
tation,  when  he  did  leave  it  and  start  down  the  central 
aisle  of  the  church,  he  looked  squarely  into  the  faces 
of  Donald  and  Nan  as  they  emerged  from  the  Daney 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  341 

pew.  Mrs.  Daney  was  conspicuous  by  her  absence. 
Nan's  baby  boy  had  fallen  asleep  during  the  service 
and  Donald  was  carrying  the  cherub. 

Old  Hector's  face  went  white;  he  gulped  when  his 
son  spoke  to  him. 

"Hello,  Dad.  You  looked  lonely  all  by  yourself  in. 
that  big  pew.  Suppose  we  come  up  and  sit  with  you 
next  Sunday?" 

Old  Hector  paused  and  bent  upon  his  son  and  Nan 
a  terrible  look.  "Never  speak  to  me  again  so  long 
as  you  live,"  he  replied  in  a  low  voice,  and  passed  out 
of  the  church. 

Donald  gazed  after  his  broad  erect  figure  and  shook 
his  head  dolefully,  as  Mr.  Daney  fell  into  step  beside 
him.  "I  told  you  so,"  he  whispered. 

"Isn't  it  awful  to  be  Scotch?"  Nan  inquired. 

"It  is  awful — on  the  Scotch,"  her  husband  assured 
her.  "The  dear  old  fraud  gulped  like  a  broken-hearted 
boy  when  I  spoke  to  him.  He'd  rather  be  wrong  than 
president." 

As  they  were  walking  home  to  the  Sawdust  Pile,  Nan 
captured  one  of  her  husband's  great  fingers  and  swung 
it  childishly.  "I  wish  }Tou  didn't  insist  upon  our  going 
to  church,  sweetheart,"  she  complained.  "We're  spoil 
ing  your  father's  Christianity." 

"Can't  help  it,"  he  replied  doggedly.  "We're  going 
to  be  thoroughbreds  about  this,  no  matter  how  much 
it  hurts." 

She  sighed.     "And  you're  only  half  Scotch,  Donald." 


xxxxrv 

BY  noon  of  the  following  day,  Port  Agnew  was 
astounded  by  news  brought  by  the  crew  of  one 
of  the  light  draft  launches  used  to  tow  log  rafts  down 
the  river.  Donald  McKaye  was  working  for  Darrow. 
He  was  their  raftsman ;  he  had  been  seen  out  on  the  log 
boom,  pike  pole  in  hand,  shoving  logs  in  to  the  endless 
chain  elevator  that  drew  them  up  to  the  seas.  As 
might  be  imagined,  Mrs.  Daney  was  among  the  first 
to  glean  this  information,  and  to  her  husband  she  re 
peated  it  at  luncheon  with  every  evidence  of  pleasure. 

"Tut,  tut,  woman,"  he  replied  carelessly,  "this  is  no 
news  to  me.  He  told  me  yesterday  after  service  that  he 
had  the  job." 

The  familiar  wrinkle  appeared  for  an  instant  on  the 
end  of  her  nose  before  she  continued:  "I  wonder  what 
The  Laird  thinks  of  that,  Andrew?" 

"So  do  I,"  he  parried  skilfully. 

"Does  he  know  it?" 

"There  isn't  a  soul  in  Port  Agnew  with  sufficient 
courage  to  tell  him." 

"Why  do  you  not  tell  him?" 

"None  of  my  business.  Besides,  I  do  not  hanker  to 
see  people  squirm  with  suffering." 

She  wrinkled  her  nose  once  more  and  was  silent. 

As  Mr.  Daney  had  declared,  there  was  none  in  Port 
Agnew  possessed  of  sufficient  hardihood  to  inform  the 
Laird  of  his  son's  lowly  status  and  it  ras  three  weeks 

342 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  343 

before  he  discovered  it  for  himself.  He  had  gone  up 
the  river  to  one  of  his  logging  camps  and  the  humor 
had  seized  him  to  make  the  trip  in  a  fast  little  motor- 
boat  he  had  given  Donald  at  Christmas  many  years 
before.  He  was  busy  adjusting  the  carburetor,  after 
months  of  disuse,  as  he  passed  the  Darrow  log  boom  in 
the  morning,  so  he  failed  to  see  his  big  son  leaping 
across  the  logs,  balancing  himself  skilfully  with  the  pike 
pole. 

It  was  rather  late  when  he  started  home  and  in  the 
knowledge  that  darkness  might  find  him  well  up  the 
river  he  hurried. 

Now,  from  the  Bight  of  Tyee  to  a  point  some  five 
miles  above  Darrow,  the  Skookum  flows  in  almost  a 
straight  line ;  the  few  bends  are  wide  and  gradual,  and 
when  The  Laird  came  to  this  home-stretch  he  urged  the 
boat  to  its  maximum  speed  of  twenty-eight  miles  per 
hour.  Many  a  time  in  happier  days  he  had  raced  down 
this  long  stretch  with  Donald  at  the  helm,  and  he 
knew  the  river  thoroughly ;  as  he  sped  along  he  steered 
mechanically,  his  mind  occupied  in  a  consideration  of 
the  dishonor  that  had  come  upon  his  clan. 

The  sun  had  already  set  as  he  came  roaring  down  a 
wide  deep  stretch  near  Darrow's  mill ;  in  his  preoccupa 
tion  he  forgot  that  his  competitor's  log  boom  stretched 
across  the  river  fully  two-thirds  of  its  width;  that  he 
should  throttle  down,  swerve  well  to  starboard  and 
avoid  the  field  of  stored  logs.  The  deep  shadows  cast 
by  the  sucker  growth  and  old  snags  along  the  bank 
blended  with  the  dark  surface  of  the  log  boom  and 
prevented  him  from  observing  that  he  was  headed  for 
the  heart  of  it ;  the  first  intimation  he  had  of  his  dan- 


344  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

ger  came  to  him  in  a  warning  shout  from  the  left  bank 
— a  shout  that  rose  above  the  roar  of  the  exhaust. 

"Jump !     Overboard !     Quickly !     The  log  boom !" 

Old  Hector  awoke  from  his  bitter  reverie.  He,  who 
had  once  been  a  river  hog,  had  no  need  to  be  told  of  the 
danger  incident  to  abrupt  precipitation  into  the  heart 
of  that  log  boom,  particularly  when  it  would  presently 
be  gently  agitated  by  the  long  high  "bone"  the  racing 
boat  carried  in  her  teeth.  When  logs  weighing  twenty 
tons  come  gently  together — even  when  they  barely  rub 
against  each  other,  nothing  living  caught  between  them 
may  survive. 

The  unknown  who  warned  him  was  right.  He  must 
jump  overboard  and  take  his  chance  in  the  river,  for 
it  was  too  late  now  to  slow  down  and  put  his  motor  in 
reverse.  In  the  impending  crash  that  was  only  a  mat 
ter  of  seconds,  The  Laird  would  undoubtedly  catapult 
from  the  stern  sheets  into  the  water — and  if  he 
should  drift  in  under  the  logs,  knew  the  river  would 
eventually  give  up  his  body  somewhere  out  in  the  Bight 
of  Tyee.  On  the  other  hand,  should  he  be  thrown  out 
on  the  boom  he  would  stand  an  equal  chance  of  being 
seriously  injured  by  the  impact  or  crushed  to  death 
when  his  helpless  body  should  fall  between  the  logs. 
In  any  event  the  boat  would  be  telescoped  down  to  the 
cockpit  and  sink  at  the  edge  of  the  log  field. 

He  was  wearing  a  heavy  overcoat,  for  it  was  late  in 
the  fall,  and  he  had  no  time  to  remove  it ;  not  even  time 
to  stand  up  and  dive  clear.  So  he  merely  hurled  his 
big  body  against  the  starboard  gunwale  and  toppled 
overboard — and  thirty  feet  further  on  the  boat  struck 
with  a  crash  that  echoed  up  and  down  the  river,  tele 
scoped  and  drove  under  the  log  boom.  It  was  not  in 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  345 

sight  when  old  Hector  rose  puffing  to  the  surface  and 
bellowed  for  help  before  starting  to  swim  for  the  log 
boom. 

The  voice  answered  him  instantly :  "Coming !  Hold 
on!" 

Handicapped  as  he  was  with  his  overcoat,  old  Hector 
found  it  a  prodigious  task  to  reach  the  boom;  as  he 
clung  to  the  boom-stick  he  could  make  out  the  figure 
of  a  man  with  a  pike  pole  coming  toward  him  in  long 
leaps  across  the  logs.  And  then  old  Hector  noticed 
something  else. 

He  had  swum  to  the  outer  edge  of  the  log  boom  and 
grasped  the  light  boom-stick,  dozens  of  which,  chained 
end  to  end,  formed  the  floating  enclosure  in  which  the 
log  supply  was  stored.  The  moment  he  rested  his 
weight  on  this  boom-stick,  however,  one  end  of  it  sub 
merged  suddenly — wherefore  The  Laird  knew  that  the 
impact  of  the  motor-boat  had  broken  a  link  of  the  boom 
and  that  this  broken  end  was  now  sweeping  outward 
and  downward,  with  the  current  releasing  the  millions 
of  feet  of  stored  logs.  Within  a  few  minutes,  provided 
he  should  keep  afloat,  he  would  be  in  the  midst  of  these 
tremendous  Juggernauts,  for,  clinging  to  the  end  of 
the  broken  boom  he  was  gradually  describing  a  circle 
on  the  outside  of  the  log  field,  swinging  from  beyond 
the  middle  of  the  river  in  to  the  left-hand  bank;  pres 
ently,  when  the  boom  should  have  drifted  its  maximum 
distance  he  would  be  hung  up  stationary  in  deep  water 
while  the  released  logs  bore  down  upon  him  with  the 
current  and  gently  shoulder  him  into  eternity. 

He  clawed  his  way  along  the  submerging  boom-stick 
to  its  other  end,  where  it  was  linked  with  its  neighbor, 


346  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

and  the  combined  buoyancy  of  both  boom-sticks  was 
sufficient  to  float  him. 

"Careful,"  he  called  to  the  man  leaping  over  the  log- 
field  toward  him.  "The  boom  is  broken !  Careful,  I  tell 
you !  The  logs  are  moving  out — they're  slipping  apart. 
Be  careful." 

Even  as  he  spoke,  The  Laird  realized  that  the  ap 
proaching  rescuer  would  not  heed  him.  He  had  to 
make  speed  out  to  the  edge  of  the  moving  logs;  if  he 
was  to  rescue  the  man  clinging  to  the  boom-sticks  he 
must  take  va  chance  on  those  long  leaps  through  the 
dusk;  he  must  reach  The  Laird  before  too  much  open 
water  developed  between  the  moving  logs. 

Only  a  trained  river  man  could  have  won  to  him  in 
such  a  brief  space  of  time;  only  an  athlete  could  have 
made  the  last  flying  leap  across  six  feet  of  dark  water 
to  a  four-foot  log  that  was  bearing  gently  down,  butt 
first,  on  the  figure  clinging  to  the  boom-stick.  His 
caulks  bit  far  up  the  side  of  the  log  and  the  force  of  his 
impact  started  it  rolling;  yet  even  as  he  clawed  his 
way  to  the  top  of  the  log  and  got  it  under  control  the 
iron  head  of  his  long  pike  pole  drove  into  the  boom- 
stick  and  fended  The  Laird  out  of  harm's  way ;  before 
the  log  the  man  rode  could  slip  by,  the  iron  had  been 
released  and  the  link  of  chain  between  the  two  boom- 
sticks  had  been  snagged  with  the  pike  hook,  and  both 
men  drifted  side  by  side. 

"Safe — o,"  his  rescuer  warned  Old  Hector  quietly. 
"Hang  on.  I'll  keep  the  logs  away  from  you  and  when 
the  field  floats  by  I'll  get  you  ashore.  We're  drifting 
gradually  in  toward  the  bank  below  the  mill." 

The  Laird  was  too  chilled,  too  exhausted  and  too 
lacking  in  breath  to  do  more  than  gasp  a  brief  word 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  647 

of  thanks.  It  seemed  a  long,  long  time  that  he  clung 
there,  and  it  was  quite  dark  when  his  rescuer  spoke 
again.  "I  think  the  last  log  has  floated  out  of  the 
booming  ground.  I'll  swim  ashore  with  you  now,  as 
soon  as  I  can  shuck  my  boots  and  mackinaw."  A  few 
minutes  later  he  cried  reassuringly,  "All  set,  old-timer," 
and  slid  into  the  water  beside  The  Laird.  "Relax  your 
self  and  do  not  struggle."  His  hands  came  up  around 
old  Hector's  jaws  from  the  rear.  "Let  go,"  he  com 
manded,  and  the  hard  tow  commenced.  It  was  all  foot 
work  and  their  progress  was  very  slow,  but  eventually 
they  won  through.  As  soon  as  he  could  stand  erect 
in  the  mud  the  rescuer  unceremoniously  seized  The 
Laird  by  the  nape  and  dragged  him  high  and  dry  up 
the  bank. 

"Now,  then,"  he  gasped,  "I  guess  you  can  take  care 
of  yourself.  Better  go  over  to  the  mill  and  warm  your 
self  in  the  furnace  room.  I've  got  to  hurry  away  to 
'phone  the  Tyee  people  to  swing  a  dozen  spare  links  of 
their  log  boom  across  the  river  and  stop  those  run 
aways  before  they  escape  into  the  Bight  and  go  to  sea 
on  the  ebb." 

He  was  gone  on  the  instant,  clambering  up  the  bank 
through  the  bushes  that  grew  to  the  water's  edge; 
old  Hector  could  hear  his  breath  coming  in  great  gasps 
as  he  ran. 

"Must  know  that  chap,  whoever  he  is,"  The  Laird 
soliloquized.  "Think  he's  worked  for  me  some  time  or 
other.  His  voice  sounds  mighty  familiar.  Well — I'll 
look  him  up  in  the  morning." 

He  climbed  after  his  rescuer  and  stumbled  away 
through  the  murk  toward  Darrow's  mill.  Arrived 
here  he  found  the  fireman  banking  the  fires  in  the  fur- 


348  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

nace  room  and  while  he  warmed  himself  one  of  them 
summoned  Bert  Darrow  from  the  mill  office. 

"Bert,"  The  Laird  explained,  "I'd  be  obliged  if  you'd 
run  me  home  in  more  or  less  of  a  hurry  in  your  closed 
car.  I've  been  in  the  drink,"  and  he  related  the  tale  of 
his  recent  adventures.  "Your  raftsman  saved  my  life," 
he  concluded.  "Who  is  he?  It  was  so  dark  before  he 
got  to  me  I  couldn't  see  his  face  distinctly,  but  I  think 
he's  a  young  fellow  who  used  to  work  for  me.  I  know 
because  his  voice  sounds  so  very  familiar." 

"He's  a  new  hand,  I  believe.  Lives  in  Port  Agnew. 
I  believe  your  man  Daney  can  tell  you  his  name,"  Dar 
row  replied  evasively. 

"I'll  ask  Daney.  The  man  was  gone  before  I  could 
recover  enough  breath  to  thank  him  for  my  life.  Sorry 
to  have  messed  up  your  boom,  Bert,  but  we'll  stop  the 
runaways  at  my  boom  and  I'll  have  them  towed  back  in 
the  morning.  And  I'll  have  a  man  put  in  a  new  boom- 
stick  and  connect  it  up  again." 

Bert  Darrow  set  him  down  at  the  Tyee  Lumber  Com 
pany's  office,  and  wet  and  chilled  as  he  was,  The  Laird 
went  at  once  to  Mr.  Daney's  office.  The  latter  was  just 
leaving  it  for  the  day  when  The  Laird  appeared. 

"Andrew,"  the  latter  began  briskly.  "I  drove  that 
fast  motor-boat  at  full  speed  into  Darrow's  boom  on 
my  way  down  river  this  evening;  I've  had  a  ducking 
and  only  for  Darrow's  raftsman  you'd  be  closing  down 
the  mill  to-morrow  out  of  respect  to  my  memory.  Bert 
Darrow  says  their  raftsman  used  to  work  for  us ;  he's 
a  new  man  with  them  and  Bert  says  you  know  who  he 
is." 

"I  think  I  know  the  man,"  Mr.  Daney  replied 
thoughtfully.  "He's  been  with  them  about  three  weeks ; 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  349 

resigned  our  employ  a  couple  of  weeks  before  that.  I 
was  sorry  to  lose  him.  He's  a  good  man." 

"I  grant  it,  Andrew.  He's  the  fastest,  coolest  hand 
that  ever  balanced  a  pike  pole  or  rode  a  log.  We  can 
not  afford  to  let  men  like  that  fellow  get  away  from 
us  for  the  sake  of  a  little  extra  pay.  Get  him  back  on 
the  payroll,  Andrew,  and  don't  be  small  with  him.  I'll 
remember  him  handsomely  at  Christmas,  and  see  that  I 
do  not  forget  this,  Andrew.  What  is  his  name?" 

"Let  me  think."  Mr.  Daney  bent  his  head,  tipped 
back  his  hat  and  massaged  his  brow  before  replying. 
"I  think  that  when  he  worked  for  the  Tyee  Lumber 
Company  he  was  known  as  Donald  McKaye." 

He  looked  up.  The  old  Laird's  face  was  ashen. 
"Thank  you,  Andrew,"  he  managed  to  murmur  pres 
ently.  "Perhaps  you'd  better  let  Darrow  keep  him  for 
a  while.  G — g — good-night !" 

Outside,  his  chauffeur  waited  with  his  car.  "Home 
— and  be  quick  about  it,"  he  mumbled  and  crawled  into 
the  tonneau  slowly  and  weakly.  As  the  car  rolled 
briskly  up  the  high  cliff  road  to  The  Dreamerie,  the  old 
man  looked  far  below  him  to  the  little  light  that  twin 
kled  on  the  Sawdust  Pile. 

"She'll  have  his  dinner  cooked  for  him  now  and  be 
waiting  and  watching  for  him,"  he  thought. 


xxxxv 

TTECTOR  McKAYE  suffered  that  winter.  He  dwelt 
*  *  in  Gethsemane,  for  he  had  incurred  to  his  outcast 
son  the  greatest  debt  that  one  man  can  incur  to  another, 
and  he  could  not  publicly  acknowledge  the  debt  or  hope 
to  repay  it  in  kind.  By  the  time  spring  came  his  heart 
hunger  was  almost  beyond  control;  there  were  times 
when,  even  against  his  will,  he  contemplated  a  recon 
ciliation  with  Donald  based  on  an  acceptance  of  the 
latter's  wife  but  with  certain  reservations.  The  Laird 
never  quite  got  around  to  defining  the  reservation  but 
in  a  vague  way  he  felt  that  they  should  exist  and  that 
eventually  Donald  would  come  to  a  realization  of  the 
fact  and  help  him  define  them. 

Each  Sunday  during  that  period  of  wretchedness  he 
saw  his  boy  and  Nan  at  church,  although  they  no 
longer  sat  with  Mr.  Daney.  From  Reverend  Tingley 
The  Laird  learned  that  Donald  now  had  a  pew  of  his 
own,  and  he  wondered  why.  He  knew  his  son  had 
never  been  remotely  religious  and  eventually  he  de 
cided  that,  in  his  son's  place,  though  he  were  the  devil 
himself,  he  would  do  exactly  as  Donald  had  done. 
Damn  a  dog  that  carried  a  low  head  and  a  dead  tail! 
It  was  the  sign  of  the  mongrel  strain — curs  always 
crept  under  the  barn  when  beaten ! 

One  Sunda}'  in  the  latter  part  of  May  he  observed 
that  Nan  came  to  church  alone.  He  wondered  if  Don 
ald  was  at  home  ill  and  a  vague  apprehension  stabbed 

350 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  351 

him;  he  longed  to  drop  into  step  beside  Nan  as  she 
left  the  church  and  ask  her,  but,  of  course,  that  was 
unthinkable.  Nevertheless  he  wished  he  knew  and  that 
afternoon  he  spent  the  entire  time  on  the  terrace  at 
The  Dreamerie,  searching  the  Sawdust  Pile  with  his 
marine  glasses,  in  the  hope  of  seeing  Donald  moving 
about  the  little  garden.  But  he  did  not  see  him,  and 
that  night  his  sleep  was  more  troubled  than  usual. 

On  the  following  Sunday  Nan  was  not  accompanied 
by  her  husband  either.  The  Laird  decided,  therefore, 
that  Donald  could  not  be  very  ill,  otherwise  Nan  would 
not  have  left  him  home  alone.  This  thought  comforted 
him  somewhat.  During  the  week  he  thought  frequently 
of  telephoning  up  to  Darrow  and  asking  if  they  still 
had  the  same  raftsman  on  the  payroll,  but  his  pride 
forbade  this.  So  he  drove  up  the  river  road  one  day 
and  stopped  his  car  among  the  trees  on  the  bank  of 
the  river  from  the  Darrow  log  boom.  A  tall,  lively 
young  fellow  was  leaping  nimbly  about  on  the  logs,  but 
so  active  was  he  that  even  at  two  hundred  yards  The 
Laird  could  not  be  certain  this  man  was  his  son.  He 
returned  to  Port  Agnew  more  troubled  and  distressed 
than  ever. 

Mrs.  McKaye  and  the  girls  had  made  three  flying 
visits  down  to  Port  Agnew  during  the  winter  and  The 
Laird  had  spent  his  week-ends  in  Seattle  twice;  other 
wise,  save  for  the  servants,  he  was  quite  alone  at  The 
Dreamerie  and  this  did  not  add  to  his  happiness. 
Gradually  the  continued  and  inexplicable  absence  'of 
Donald  at  Sunday  service  became  an  obsession  with 
him;  he  could  think  of  nothing  else  in  his  spare  mo 
ments  and  even  at  times  when  it  was  imperative  he 
should  give  all  of  his  attention  to  important  business 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

matters,  this  eternal,  damnable  query  continued  to  con 
front  him.  It  went  to  bed  with  him  and  got  up  with 
him  and  under  its  steady  relentless  attrition  he  began 
to  lose  the  look  of  robust  health  that  set  him  off  so 
well  among  men  of  his  own  age.  His  eyes  took  on  a 
worried,  restless  gleam;  he  was  irritable  and  in  the 
mornings  he  frequently  wore  to  the  office  the  haggard 
appearance  that  speaks  so  accusingly  of  a  sleepless 
night.  He  lost  his  appetite  and  in  consequence  he  lost 
weight.  Andrew  Daney  was  greatly  concerned  about 
him,  and  one  day,  apropos  of  nothing,  he  demanded  a 
bill  of  particulars. 

"Oh,  I  daresay  I'm  getting  old,  Andrew,"  The  Laird 
replied  evasively. 

"Worrying  about  the  boy?" 

It  was  a  straight  shot  and  old  Hector  was  too 
inexpressibly  weary  to  attempt  to  dodge  it.  He  nodded 
sadly. 

"Well,  let  us  hope  he'll  come  through  all  right, 
sir." 

"Is  he  ill?  What's  wrong  with  him,  Andrew?  Man, 
I've  been  eating  my  heart  out  for  months,  wondering 
what  it  is,  but  you  know  the  fix  I'm  in.  I  don't  like 
to  ask  and  not  a  soul  in  Port  Agnew  will  discuss  him 
with  me." 

"Why,  there's  nothing  wrong  with  him  that  I'm 
aware  of,  sir.  I  spoke  to  Nan  after  services  last 
Sunday  and  she  read  me  a  portion  of  his  last  let 
ter.  He  was  quite  well  at  that  time." 

"W-wh-where  is  he,  Andrew?" 

"Somewhere  in  France.     He's  not  allowed  to  tell." 

"France?     Good  God,  Andrew,  not  France!" 

"Why  not,  may  I  ask?     Of  course  he's  in  France. 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  553 

He  enlisted  as  a  private  shortly  after  war  was  declared. 
Dirty  Dan  quit  his  job  and  went  with  him.  They  went 
over  with  the  Fifth  Marines.  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me 
this  is  news  to  you?"  he  added,  frankly  amazed. 

"I  do,"  old  Hector  mumbled  brokenly.  "Oh,  An 
drew  man,  this  is  terrible,  terrible.  I  canna  stand  it, 
man."  He  sat  down  and  covered  his  face  with  his 
trembling  old  hands. 

"Why  can't  you?  You  wouldn't  want  him  to  sit  at 
home  and  be  a  slacker,  would  you?  And  you  wouldn't 
have  a  son  of  yours  wait  until  the  draft  board  took 
him  by  the  ear  and  showed  him  his  duty,  would  you?" 

"If  he's  killed  I'll  nae  get  over  it."  The  Laird  com 
menced  to  weep  childishly. 

"Well,  better  men  or  at  least  men  as  fine,  are  paying 
that  price  for  citizenship,  Hector  McKaye." 

"But  his  wife,  man?  He  was  married.  Twas  not 
expected  of  him " 

"I  believe  his  wife  is  more  or  less  proud  of  him, 
sir.  Her  people  have  always  followed  the  flag  in  some 
capacity." 

"But  how  does  she  exist?  Andrew  Daney,  if  you're 
giving  her  the  money " 

"If  I  am  you  have  no  right  to  ask  impertinent  ques 
tions  about  it.  But  I'm  not." 

"I  never  knew  it,  I  never  knew  it,"  the  old  man 
complained  bitterly.  "Nobody  tells  me  anything  about 
my  own  son.  I'm  alone;  I  sit  in  the  darkness,  stifling 
with  money — oh,  Andrew,  Andrew,  I  didn't  say  good- 
by  to  him !  I  let  him  go  in  sorrow  and  in  anger." 

"You  may  have  time  to  cure  all  that.  Go  down  to 
the  Sawdust  Pile,  take  the  girl  to  your  heart  like  a  good 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

father  should  and  then  cable  the  boy.    That  will  square 
things  beautifully." 

Even  in  his  great  distress  the  stubborn  old  head  was 
shaken  emphatically.  The  Laird  of  Port  Agnew  was 
not  yet  ready  to  surrender. 

Spring  lengthened  into  summer  and  summer  into 
fall.  Quail  piped  in  the  logged-over  lands  and  wild 
ducks  whistled  down  through  the  timber  and  rested  on 
the  muddy  bosom  of  the  Skookum,  but  for  the  first  time 
in  forty  years  The  Laird's  setters  remained  in  their 
kennels  and  his  fowling  pieces  in  their  leather  cases. 
To  him  the  wonderful  red  and  gold  of  the  grieat 
Northern  woods  had  lost  the  old  allurement  and  he  no 
longer  thrilled  when  a  ship  of  his  fleet,  homeward 
bound,  dipped  her  house-flag  far  below  him.  He  was 
slowly  disintegrating. 

Of  late  he  had  observed  that  Nan  no  longer  came 
to  church,  so  he  assumed  she  had  found  the  task  of 
facing  her  world  bravely  one  somewhat  beyond  her 
strength.  A  few  months  before,  this  realization  would 
have  proved  a  source  of  savage  satisfaction  to  him, 
but  time  and  suffering  were  working  queer  changes  in 
his  point  of  view.  Now,  although  he  told  himself  it 
served  her  right,  he  was  sensible  of  a  small  feeling  of 
sympathy  for  her  and  a  large  feeling  of  resentment 
against  the  conditions  that  had  brought  her  into  con 
flict  with  the  world. 

"I  daresay,"  Andrew  Daney  remarked  to  him  about 
Christmas  time,  "you  haven't  forgotten  your  resolve 
to  do  something  handsome  for  that  raftsman  of  Dar- 
row's  who  saved  your  life  last  January.  You  told  me 
to  remind  you  of  him  at  Christmas." 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  355 

"I  have  not  forgotten  the  incident,"  old  Hector  an 
swered  savagely. 

"I  think  it  might  be  a  nice  thing  to  do  if  you  would 
send  word  to  Nan,  by  me,  that  it  will  please  you 
if  she  will  consent  to  have  your  grandchild  born  in  the 
company  hospital.  Otherwise,  I  imagine  she  will  go  to 
a  Seattle  hospital,  and  with  doctors  and  nurses  away  to 
the  war  there's  a  chance  she  may  not  get  the  best  of 
care." 

"Do  as  you  see  fit,"  The  Laird  answered.  He  longed 
to  evade  the  issue — he  realized  that  Daney  was  crowd 
ing  him  always,  setting  traps,  for  him,  driving  him  re 
lentlessly  toward  a  reconciliation  that  was  abhorrent 
to  him.  "I  have  no  objection.  She  cannot  afford  the 
expense  of  a  Seattle  hospital,  I  daresay,  and  I  do  not 
desire  to  oppress  her." 

The  following  day  Mr.  Daney  reported  that  Nan 
had  declined  with  thanks  his  permission  to  enter  the 
Tyee  Lumber  Company's  hospital.  As  a  soldier's  wife 
she  would  be  cared  for  without  expense  in  the  Base 
Hospital  at  Camp  Lewis,  less  than  a  day's  journey  dis 
tant. 

The  Laird  actually  quivered  when  Daney  broke  this 
news  to  him.  He  was  hurt — terribly  hurt — but  he 
dared  not  admit  it.  In  January  he  learned  through 
Mr.  Daney  that  he  was  a  grandfather  to  a  nine-pound 
boy  and  that  Nan  planned  to  call  the  baby  Caleb,  after 
her  father.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  then,  The 
Laird  felt  a  pang  of  jealousy.  While  the  child  could 
never,  by  any  possibility,  be  aught  to  him,  nevertheless 
he  felt  that  in  the  case  of  a  male  child  a  certain  polite 
deference  toward  the  infant's  paternal  ancestors  was 


356  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

always  commendable.  At  any  rate,  Caleb  was  Yankee 
and  hateful. 

"I  am  the  twelfth  of  my  line  to  be  named  Hector," 
he  said  presently — and  Andrew  Daney  with  difficulty 
repressed  a  roar  of  maniac  laughter.  Instead  he  said 
soberly. 

"The  child's  playing  in  hard  luck  as  matters  stand ; 
it  would  be  adding  insult  to  injury  to  call  him  Hector 
McKaye,  Thirteenth.  Isn't  that  why  you  named  your 
son  Donald?" 

The  Laird  pretended  not  to  hear  this.  Having  been 
fired  on  from  ambush,  as  it  were,  he  immediately  started 
discussing  an  order  for  some  ship  timbers  for  the  Emer 
gency  Fleet  Corporation.  When  he  retired  to  his  own 
office,  however,  he  locked  the  door  and  wept  with  sym 
pathy  for  his  son,  so  far  away  and  in  the  shadow 
of  death  upon  the  occasion  of  the  birth  of  his  first 
son. 


XXXXVI 

SPRING  came.  Overhead  the  wild  geese  flew  in  long 
wedges,  honking,  into  the  North,  and  The  Laird  re 
membered  how  Donald,  as  a  boy,  used  to  shoot  at  them 
with  a  rifle  as  they  passed  over  The  Dreamerie.  Their 
honking  wakened  echoes  in  his  heart.  With  the  win 
ter's  supply  of  logs  now  gone,  logging  operations  com 
menced  in  the  woods  with  renewed  vigor,  the  river 
teemed  with  rafts,  the  shouts  of  the  rivermen  echoing 
from  bank  to  bank.  Both  Tyee  and  Darrow  were  get 
ting  out  spruce  for  the  government  and  ship  timbers  for 
the  wooden  shipyards  along  San  Francisco  Bay. 

Business  had  never  been  so  brisk,  and  with  the  addi 
tion  of  the  war  duties  that  came  to  every  community 
leader,  The  Laird  found  some  surcease  from  his 
heart-hunger.  Mrs.  McKaye  and  the  girls  had  re 
turned  to  The  Dreamerie,  now  that  Donald's  marriage 
had  ceased  to  interest  anybody  but  themselves,  so  old 
Hector  was  not  so  lonely.  But — the  flag  was  flying 
again  at  the  Sawdust  Pile,  each  day  of  toil  for  The 
Laird  was  never  complete  without  an  eager  search  of 
the  casualty  lists  published  in  the  Seattle  papers. 

Spring  lengthened  into  summer.  The  Marine  cas 
ualties  at  Belleau  Wood  and  Chateau-Thierry  appalled 
The  Laird;  he  read  that  twenty  survivors  of  a  charge 
that  started  two  hundred  and  fifty  strong  across  the 
wheat  field  at  Bouresches  had  taken  Bouresches  and 
held  it  against  three  hundred  of  the  enemy — led  by 

357 


358  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

Sergeant  Daniel  J.  O'Leary,  of  Port  Agnew,  Wash 
ington  !  Good  old  Dirty  Dan !  At  last  he  was  finding 
a  legitimate  outlet  for  his  talents!  He  would  get  the 
Distinguished  Service  Cross  for  that !  The  Laird  won 
dered  what  Donald  would  receive.  It  would  be  ter 
rible  should  Dirty  Dan  return  with  the  Cross  and 
Donald  McKaye  without  it. 

In  September,  Donald  appeared  in  the  Casualty  List 
as  slightly  wounded.  Also,  he  was  a  first  lieutenant 
now.  The  Laird  breathed  easier,  for  his  son  would  be 
out  of  it  for  a  few  months,  no  doubt.  It  was  a  severe 
punishment,  however,  not  to  be  able  to  discuss  his  gal 
lant  son  with  anybody.  At  home  his  dignity  and  a  firm 
adherence  to  his  previous  announcement  that  his  son's 
name  should  never  be  mentioned  in  his  presence,  for 
bade  a  discussion  with  Mrs.  McKaye  and  the  girls ;  and 
when  he  weakly  sparred  for  an  opportunity  with  An 
drew  Daney,  that  stupid  creature  declined  to  rise  to 
the  bait,  or  even  admit  that  he  knew  of  Donald's  com 
mission.  When  told  of  it,  he  expressed  neither  surprise 
nor  approval. 

In  November,  the  great  influenza  epidemic  came  to 
Port  Agnew  and  took  heavy  toll.  It  brought  to  The 
Laird  a  newer,  a  more  formidable  depression.  What  if 
Donald's  son  should  catch  it  and  die,  and  Donald  be 
deprived  of  the  sight  of  his  first-born?  What  if  Nan 
should  succumb  to  an  attack  of  it  while  her  husband 
was  in  France  ?  In  that  event  would  Donald  forgive  and 
forget  and  come  home  to  The  Dreamerie?  Somehow, 
old  Hector  had  his  doubts. 

For  a  long  time  now,  he  had  felt  a  great  urge  to  see 
Donald's  son.  Pie  had  a  curiosity  to  discover  whether 
the  child  favored  the  McKayes  or  the  Brents.  If  it 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  359 

favored  the  McKayes — well,  perhaps  he  might  make 
some  provision  for  its  future  in  his  will,  and  in  order 
to  prove  himself  a  good  sport  he  would  leave  an  equal 
sum  to  Nan's  illegitimate  child,  which  Donald  had  for 
mally  adopted  a  few  days  after  his  marriage  to  Nan. 
Why  make  fish  of  one  and  fowl  of  the  other?  he  thought. 
They  were  both  McKayes  now,  in  the  sight  of  the  law, 
and  for  aught  he  knew  to  the  contrary  they  were  full 
brothers ! 

The  child  became  an  obsession  with  him.  He  longed 
to  weigh  it  and  compare  its  weight  with  that  of  Don 
ald's  at  the  same  age — he  had  the  ancient  record  in 
an  old  memorandum  book  at  the  office.  He  speculated 
on  whether  it  had  blue  eyes  or  brown,  whether  it  was  a 
blond  or  a  brunette.  He  wondered  if  Daney  had 
seen  it  and  wondering,  at  length  he  asked.  Yes,  Mr. 
Daney  had  seen  the  youngster  several  times,  but  be 
yond  that  statement  he  would  not  go  and  The  Laird's 
dignity  forbade  too  direct  a  probe.  He  longed  to 
throttle  Mr.  Daney,  who  he  now  regarded  as  the  most 
unsympathetic,  prosaic,  dull-witted  old  ass  imagin 
able. 

He  wanted  to  see  that  child!  The  desire  to  do  so 
never  left  him  during  his  waking  hours  and  he  dreamed 
of  the  child  at  night.  So  in  the  end  he  yielded  and  went 
down  to  the  Sawdust  Pile,  under  cover  of  darkness,  his 
intention  being  to  sneak  up  to  the  little  house  and  en 
deavor  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  child  through  the 
window.  He  was  enraged  to  discover,  however,  that 
Nan  maintained  a  belligerent  Airedale  that  refused, 
like  all  good  Airedales,  to  waste  his  time  and  dignity 
in  useless  barking.  He  growled — once,  and  The  Laird 


360  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

knew  he  meant  it,  so  he  got  out  of  that  yard  in  a 
hurry. 

He  was  in  a  fine  rage  as  he  walked  back  to  the  mill 
office  and  got  into  his  car.  Curse  the  dog !  Was  he  to 
be  deprived  of  a  glimpse  of  his  grandson  by  an  insen 
sate  brute  of  a  dog?  He'd  be  damned  if  he  was !  He'd 
shoot  the  animal  first — no,  that  would  never  do.  Nan 
would  come  out  and  he  would  be  discovered.  More 
over,  what  right  had  he  to  shoot  anybody's  dog  until  it 
attacked  him?  The  thing  to  do  would  be  to  put  some 
strychnine  on  a  piece  of  meat — no,  no,  that  would  never 
do.  The  person  who  would  poison  a  dog — any  kind  of 
a  dog — 

It  was  a  good  dog.  The  animal  certainly  was  acting 
within  its  legal  rights.  Yes,  he  knew  now  where  Nan 
had  gotten  it.  The  dog  had  belonged  to  First  Sergeant 
Daniel  J.  O'Leary  of  the  Fifth  Marines ;  he  had  doubt 
less  given  it  to  Nan  to  keep  for  him  when  he  went  to 
the  war;  The  Laird  knew  Dan  thought  a  great  deal 
of  that  dog.  His  name  was  Jerry  and  he  had  aided 
Dirty  Dan  in  more  than  one  bar-room  battle. 

Jerry,  like  his  master,  like  the  master  of  the  woman 
he  protected,  was  a  Devil-dog,  and  one  simply  cannot 
kill  a  soldier's  dog  for  doing  a  soldier's  duty.  Should 
Jerry  charge  there  would  be  no  stopping  him  until  he 
was  killed,  so  The  Laird  saw  very  clearly  that  there 
was  but  one  course  open  to  him.  If  he  marched  through 
that  gate  and  straight  to  the  door,  as  if  he  meant  busi 
ness,  as  if  he  had  a  moral  and  legal  right  to  be  there 
on  business,  Jerry  would  understand  and  permit  him 
to  pass.  But  if  he  snooped  in,  like  a  thief  in  the  night, 
and  peered  in  at  a  window — 

"I  wish  I  had  a  suit  of  Fifteenth  Century  armour," 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  361 

he  thought.  "Then  Jerry,  you  could  chew  on  my  leg 
and  be  damned  to  you.  You're  a  silent  dog  and  I  could 
have  a  g«ood  look  while  you  were  wrecking  your 
teeth." 

He  went  back  to  the  Sawdust  Pile  at  dusk  the  next 
evening,  hoping  Jerry  would  be  absent  upon  some  un 
lawful  private  business,  but  when  he  approached  the 
gate  slowly  and  noiselessly  Jerry  spoke  up  softly  from 
within  and  practically  said:  "Get  out  or  take  the 
consequences." 

The  following  night,  however,  The  Laird  was  pre 
pared  for  Jerry.  He  did  not  halt  at  the  dog's  pre 
liminary  warning  but  advanced  and  rattled  the  gate  a 
little.  Immediately  Jerry  came  to  the  gate  and  stood 
just  inside  growling  in  his  throat,  so  The  Laird  thrust 
an  atomizer  through  the  palings  and  deluged  Jerry's 
hairy  countenance  with  a  fine  cloud  of  spirits  of  am 
monia.  He  had  once  tried  that  trick  on  a  savage  bull 
dog  in  which  he  desired  to  inculcate  some  respect  for 
his  person,  and  had  succeeded  beyond  his  most  san 
guine  expectations.  Therefore,  since  desperate  circum 
stances  always  require  desperate  measures,  the  mem 
ory  of  that  ancient  victory  had  moved  him  to  at 
tempt  a  similar  embarrassment  of  the  dog  Jerry. 

But  Jerry  was  a  devil-dog.  He  had  been  raised 
and  trained  by  Dirty  Dan  O'Leary  and  in  company 
with  that  interesting  anthropoid  he  had  been  through 
many  stormy  passages.  Long  before,  he  had  learned 
that  the  offensive  frequently  wins — the  defensive  never. 
It  is  probable  that  he  wept  as  he  sniffed  the  awful  stuff, 
but  if  he  did  they  were  tears  of  rage. 

Jerry's  first  move  was  to  stand  on  his  head  and  cover 
his  face  with  his  paws.  Then  he  did  several  back  flips 


362  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

and  wailed  aloud  in  his  misery  and  woe,  his  yelps  of 
distress  quite  filling  the  empyrean.  But  only  for  the 
space  of  a  few  seconds.  Recovering  his  customary 
aplomb  he  made  a  flying  leap  for  the  top  of  the  gate, 
his  yelps  now  succeeded  by  ambitious  growls — and  in 
self-defense  The  Laird  was  forced  to  spray  him  again 
as  he  clung  momentarily  on  top  of  the  palings.  With 
a  sob  Jerry  dropped  back  and  buried  his  nose  in  the 
dust,  while  The  Laird  beat  a  hurried  retreat  into  the 
darkness,  for  he  had  lost  all  confidence  in  his  efforts  to 
inculcate  in  Jerry  an  humble  and  contrite  spirit. 

He  could  hear  rapid  footsteps  inside  the  little  house; 
then  the  door  opened  and  in  the  light  that  streamed 
from  within  he  was  indistinctly  visible  to  Nan  as  she 
stood  in  the  doorway. 

"Jerry!"  he  heard  her  call.  "Good  dog!  What's 
the  matter?  After  him,  Jerry.  Go  get  him,  Jerry!" 
She  ran  to  the  gate  and  opened  it  for  the  dog,  who 
darted  through,  but  paused  again  to  run  his  afflicted 
nose  in  the  dust  and  roll  a  couple  of  times.  Apparently 
he  felt  that  there  was  no  great  hurry ;  his  quarry  could 
not  escape  him.  It  is  probable,  also,  that  he  was  more 
or  less  confused  and  not  quite  certain  which  direction 
the  enemy  had  taken,  for  Jerry's  sense  of  smell  was 
temporarily  suspended  and  his  eyes  blinded  by  tears; 
certain  his  language  was  not  at  all  what  it  should 
have  been. 

The  Laird  ran  blindly,  apprehensively,  but  for  a 
very  short  distance.  Suddenly  he  bumped  into  some 
thing  quite  solid,  which  closed  around  him  viciously. 
"Halt,  damn  you,"  a  commanding  voice  cried. 

Despite  his  years,  Hector  McKaye  was  no  weakling, 
and  in  the  knowledge  that  he  could  not  afford  to  be 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  363 

captured  and  discovered,  seemingly  he  slipped  forty 
years  from  his  shoulders.  Once  more  he  was  a  lumber 
jack,  the  top  dog  of  his  district — and  he  proceeded  to 
fight  like  one.  His  old  arms  rained  punches  on  the 
midriff  of  the  man  who  held  him  and  he  knew  they 
stung  cruelly,  for  at  every  punch  the  man  grunted  and 
strove  to  clinch  him  tighter  and  smother  the  next  blow. 
"Let  go  me  or  I'll  kill  you,"  The  Laird  panted.  "Man 
dinna  drive  me  to  it.'*  He  ceased  his  rain  of  blows, 
grasped  his  adversary  and  tried  to  wrestle  him  down. 
He  succeeded,  but  the  man  would  not  stay  down.  He 
wriggled  out  with  amazing  ease  and  had  old  Hector 
with  his  shoulders  touching  before  The  Laird's  heaving 
chest  and  two  terrible  thumbs  closed  down  on  each  of 
The  Laird's  eyes,  with  four  powerful  fingers  clasping 
his  face  like  talons.  "Quit,  or  I'll  squeeze  your  eye 
balls  out,"  a  voice  warned  him. 

The  Laird's  hand  beat  the  ground  beside  him.  He 
had  surrendered  to  a  master  of  his  style  of  fighting. 
With  something  of  the  air  of  an  expert,  his  con 
queror  ran  a  quick  hand  over  him,  seeking  for  weapons, 
and  finding  none,  he  grasped  The  Laird  by  the  collar 
and  jerked  him  to  his  feet.  "Now,  then,  my  hearty, 
I'll  have  a  look  at  you,"  he  said.  "You'll  explain  why 
you're  skulking  around  here  and  abusing  that  dog !" 

The  Laird  quivered  as  he  found  himself  being 
dragged  toward  the  stream  of  light,  in  the  center  of 
which  Nan  Brent  stood  silhouetted.  He  could  not  af 
ford  this  and  he  was  not  yet  defeated. 

"A  thousand  dollars  if  you  let  me  go  now,"  he 
panted.  "I  have  the  money  in  my  pocket.  Ask  yon 
lass  if  I've  done  aught  wrong." 

His    Captor   paused    and   seemed   to    consider   this. 


364  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

"Make  it  ten  thousand  and  I'll  consider  it,"  he  whis 
pered.  "Leave  it  on  the  mail  box  just  outside  the  Tyee 
Lumber  Company's  office  at  midnight  to-morrow 
night." 

"I'll  do  it — so  help  me  God,"  The  Laird  promised 
frantically. 

His  son's  voice  spoke  in  his  ear.  "Dad!  You  low- 
down,  worthless  lovable  old  fraud!" 

"My  son !  My  son !"  Old  Hector's  glad  cry  ended 
in  a  sob.  "Oh,  my  sonny  boy,  my  bonny  lad !  I  canna 
stand  it.  I  canna!  Forgie  me,  lad,  forgie  me — and 
ask  her  to  forgie  me!"  His  old  arms  were  around  his 
son's  neck  and  he  was  crying  on  Donald's  shoulder,  un 
ashamed.  "I  was  trying  for  a  look  at  the  bairn,"  he 
cried  brokenly,  "and  'twas  a  privilege  God  would  nae 
gie  me  seeing  that  I  came  like  a  sneak  and  not  like  an 
honest  man.  The  damned  dog — he  knew!  Och,  Don 
ald,  say  ye  forgie  ye're  auld  faither.  Say  it,  lad.  Ma 
heart's  breakin'." 

"Why,  bless  your  bare-shanked  old  Scotch  soul,  of 
course  I  forgive  you.  I  never  held  any  grudge,  you 
know.  I  simply  stood  pat  until  you  could  see  things 
through  my  eyes." 

"Is  that  you,  Donald?"  Nan  called. 

"Aye,  aye,  sweetheart.  Dad's  here.  He  wants  to 
know  if  you  regard  him  as  a  particularly  terrible  old 
man.  I  think  he's  afraid  you  will  refuse  to  let  him 
look  at  Laird  Hector,  Thirteenth." 

"Man,  man,"  the  old  man  urged,  quite  shocked  at 
this  casual  greeting  of  a  returned  hero  to  his  wife,  "go 
to  her,  lad.  She'll  not  relish  favoritism." 

"Oh,  this  isn't  our  first  meeting,  Dad.  I  got  home 
yesterday.  I  have  thirty  days  leave.  They  sent  me 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  365 

home  as  an  instructor  in  small  arms  practice  and  gave 
me  a  boost  in  rank.  I  was  just  up  town  for  a  beef 
steak  and  I've  lost  the  beefsteak  battling  with  you." 

The  Laird  wiped  his  eyes  and  got  control  of  himself. 
Presently  he  said:  "Keep  that  blessed  dog  off  me," 
and  started  resolutely  for  the  front  gate.  Without  a 
moment's  hesitation  he  folded  Nan  in  his  arms  and 
kissed  her.  "Poor  bairn,"  he  whispered.  "I've  been 
cruel  to  you.  Forgie  me,  daughter,  if  so  be  you  can 
find  it  in  your  heart  to  be  that  generous.  God  knows, 
lass,  I'll  try  to  be  worthy  of  you." 

"Am  I  worthy  of  him?"  she  whispered,  woman 
like. 

"Plar  more  than  his  father  is,"  he  admitted  hum 
bly.  "Damn  the  world  and  damn  the  people  in  it. 
You're  a  good  girl,  Nan.  You  always  were  a  good 
girl » 

"But  suppose  she  wasn't — always?"  Donald  queried 
gently.  "Is  that  going  to  make  any  difference — to 
you?" 

"I  don't  care  what  she  was  before  you  married  her. 
I  haven't  thought  about  that  for  a  long  time  the  way 
I  used  to  think  about  it.  I  built  The  Dreamerie  for  you 
and  the  girl  you'd  marry  and  I — I  accept  her  uncon 
ditionally,  my  son,  and  thank  God  she  has  the  charity 
to  accept  an  old  Pharisee  like  me  for  a  father-in- 
law." 

Donald  slipped  his  arm  around  Nan's  waist,  and 
started  with  her  toward  the  door.  "Tag  along,  fa 
ther,"  he  suggested,  "and  Nan  will  show  you  a  prize 
grandson." 

At  the  door,  Nan  paused.     "Do  you  think,  father 


366  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

McKaye,"  she  queried,  "that  the  remainder  of  the  fam 
ily  will  think  as  you  do?" 

"I  fear  not,"  he  replied  sadly.  "But  then,  you 
haven't  married  the  family.  They'll  accept  you  or  keep 
out  of  Port  Agnew;  at  any  rate  they'll  never  bother 
you,  my  dear.  I  think,"  he  added  grimly,  "that  I  may 
find  a  way  to  make  them  treat  you  with  civility  at 
least." 

"He's  a  pretty  good  old  sport  after  all,  isn't  he, 
Nan?"  her  husband  suggested. 

"I'll  tell  the  world  he  is,"  she  answered  archly,  em 
ploying  the  A.  E.  F.  slang  she  had  already  learned 
from  Donald.  She  linked  her  arm  in  old  Hector's  and 
steered  him  down  the  hall  to  the  living-room.  "Your 
grandson  is  in  there,"  she  said,  and  opening  the  door 
she  gently  propelled  him  into  the  room. 


XXXXVII 

NAN  was  right.  His  grandson  was  there,  but  strange 
to  relate  he  was  seated,  as  naked  as  Venus  (save 
for  a  diaper)  on  his  grandmother's  lap. 

Hector  McKaye  paused  and  glared  at  his  wife. 

"Damn  it,  Nellie,"  he  roared,  "what  the  devil  do  you 
mean  by  this  ?" 

"I'm  tired  of  being  an  old  fool,  Hector,"  she  re 
plied  meekly,  and  held  the  baby  up  for  his  inspec 
tion. 

"It's  time  you  were,"  he  growled.  "Come  here, 
you  young  rascal  till  I  heft  you.  By  the  gods  of  war, 
he's  a  McKaye !"  He  hugged  the  squirming  youngster 
to  his  heart  and  continued  to  glare  at  his  wife  as  if 
she  were  a  hardened  criminal.  "Why  didn't  you"  tell 
me  you  felt  yourself  slipping?"  he  demanded.  "Out 
with  it,  Nellie." 

"There  will  be  no  post-mortems,"  Nan  interdicted. 
"Mother  McKaye  and  Elizabeth  and  Jane  and  I 
patched  up  our  difficulties  when  Donald  came  home 
yesterday.  How  we  did  it  or  what  transpired  before  we 
did  it,  doesn't  matter,  you  dear  old  snooper." 

"What?  Elizabeth  and  Jane?  Unconditional  sur 
render?" 

She  nodded  smilingly  and  The  Laird  admitted  his 
entire  willingness  to  be — jiggered.  Finally,  having  in 
spected  his  grandson,  he  turned  for  an  equally  minute 
inspection  of  his  soldier  son  under  the  lamplight. 

"Three  service  stripes  and  one  wound  stripe,"  he 

367 


368  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

murmured.      "And   you're    not    crippled,    boy   dear?" 

"Do  I  fight  like  one?  Hector,  man,  those  punches  of 
yours  would  have  destroyed  a  battalion  of  cripples. 
Oh,  you  old  false-alarm!  Honestly,  Dad,  you're  the 
most  awful  dub  imaginable.  And  trying  to  bribe  me 
into  permitting  you  to  escape — what  the  deuce  have 
you  been  monkeying  with?  You  reek  of  ammonia — 
here,  go  away  from  my  son.  You're  poison." 

The  Laird  ignored  him.  "What's  that  ribbon?'*  he 
demanded. 

"Distinguished  Service  Cross." 

"You  must  have  bought  it  in  a  pawnshop.  And  that 
thing?" 

"Croix  de  Guerre." 

"And  that  red  one?" 

"Legion  d'Honneur." 

A  pause.     "What  did  Dirty  Dan  get,  son?" 

"The  one  thing  in  the  world  he  thought  he  despised. 
The  Congressional  Medal  of  Honor  for  valor  in  sav 
ing  the  life  of  a  British  colonel,  who,  by  the  way,  hap 
pens  to  be  an  Orangeman.  When  he  discovered  it  he 
wanted  to  bayonet  the  colonel  and  I  won  the  Croix  de 
Guerre  for  stopping  him." 

"Oh,  cease  your  nonsense,  Donald,"  his  wife  urged, 
"and  tell  your  father  and  mother  something.  I  think 
they  are  entitled  to  the  news  now." 

"Yes,  Nan,  I  think  they  are.  Listen,  folks.  Now 
that  you've  all  been  nice  enough  to  be  human  beings 
and  accept  my  wife  at  her  face  value,  I  have  a  sur 
prise  for  you.  On  the  day  when  Nan  married  the 
father  of  my  adopted  son,  he  waited  until  the  officiat 
ing  minister  had  signed  the  marriage  license  and  at 
tested  that  he  had  performed  the  ceremony ;  then  while 
the  minister's  attention  was  on  something  else,  he  took 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  369 

possession  of  the  license  and  put  it  in  his  overcoat 
pocket.  Later  he  and  Nan  drove  to  a  restaurant  for 
luncheon  and  the  overcoat  with  the  license  in  the  pocket 
was  stolen,  from  the  automobile.  The  thief  pawned 
the  coat  later  and  the  pawnbroker  discovered  the  li 
cense  in  the  pocket  after  the  thief  had  departed.  The 
following  day  the  fellow  was  arrested  in  the  act  of 
stealing  another  overcoat ;  the  pawnbroker  read  of  the 
arrest  and  remembered  he  had  loaned  five  dollars  on 
an  overcoat  to  a  man  who  gave  the  same  name  this 
thief  gave  to  the  police.  So  the  pawnbroker — 

"I  am  not  interested,  my  son.    I  require  no  proofs." 

"Thank  you  for  that,  father.  But  you're  entitled  to 
them  and  you're  going  to  get  them.  The  pawnbroker 
found  on  the  inside  lining  of  the  inner  breast  pocket 
of  the  overcoat  the  tag  which  all  tailors  sew  there  when 
they  make  the  garment.  This  tag  bore  the  name  of  the 
owner  of  the  overcoat,  his  address  and  the  date  of  de 
livery  of  the  overcoat." 

"Now,  the  pawnbroker  noticed  that  the  man  who 
owned  the  overcoat  was  not  the  person  named  in  the 
marriage  license.  Also  he  noticed  that  the  marriage  li 
cense  was  attested  by  a  minister  but  that  it  had  not 
been  recorded  by  the  state  board  of  health,  as  required 
by  law — and  the  pawnbroker  was  aware  that  marriage 
licenses  are  not  permitted,  by  law,  to  come  into  the 
possession  of  the  contracting  parties  until  the  fact  that 
they  have  been  legally  married  has  been  duly  recorded 
on  the  evidence  of  the  marriage — which  is,  of  course, 
the  marriage  license." 

"Why  didn't  the  idiot  send  the  license  back  to  the 
minister  who  had  performed  the  ceremony?"  The  Laird 
demanded.  "Then  this  tangle  would  never  have  oc 
curred." 


370  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

"He  says  he  thought  of  that,  but  he  was  suspicious. 
It  was  barely  possible  that  the  officiating  clergyman 
had  connived  at  the  theft  of  the  license  from  his  desk, 
so  the  pawnbroker,  who  doubtless  possesses  the  in 
stincts  of  an  amateur  detective,  resolved  to  get  the  li 
cense  into  the  hands  of  Nan  Brent  direct.  Before  do 
ing  so,  however,  he  wrote  to  the  man  named  in  the 
license  and  sent  his  letter  to  the  address  therein  given. 
In  the  course  of  time  that  letter  was  returned  by  the 
postoffice  department  witli  the  notation  that  the  loca 
tion  of  the  addressee  was  unknown.  The  pawnbroker 
then  wrote  to  the  man  whose  name  appeared  on  the 
tailor's  tag  in  the  overcoat,  and  promptly  received  a 
reply.  Yes,  an  overcoat  had  been  stolen  from  his  auto 
mobile  on  a  certain  date.  He  described  the  overcoat 
and  stated  that  the  marriage  license  of  a  friend  of  his 
might  be  found  in  the  breast  pocket,  provided  the  thief 
had  not  removed  it.  If  the  license  was  there  he  would 
thank  the  pawnbroker  to  forward  it  to  him.  He  en 
closed  a  check  to  redeem  the  overcoat  and  pay  the  cost 
of  forwarding  it  to  him  by  parcel  post,  insured.  The 
pawnbroker  had  that  check  photographed  before  cash 
ing  it  and  he  forwarded  the  overcoat  but  retained  the 
marriage  license,  for  he  was  more  than  ever  convinced 
that  things  were  not  as  they  should  have  been. 

"His  next  move  was  to  \vrite  Miss  Nan  Brent,  at 
Port  Agnew,  Washington,  informing  her  of  the  cir 
cumstances  and  advising  her  that  he  had  her  marriage 
certificate.  This  letter  reached  Port  Agnew  at  the  time 
Nan  was  living  in  San  Francisco,  and  her  father  re 
ceived  it.  He  merely  scratched  out  Port  Agnew, 
Washington,  and  substituted  for  that  address:  'Care 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  371 

of  using  Nan's  married  name,  Altamont  Apart 
ments,  San  Francisco.' 

"By  the  time  that  letter  reached  San  Francisco  Nan 
had  left  that  address,  but  since  she  planned  a  brief 
absence  only,  she  left  no  forwarding  address  for  her 
mail.  That  was  the  time  she  came  north  to  visit  her 
father  and  in  Seattle  she  discovered  that  her  supposed 
husband  was  already  married.  I  have  told  you,  father, 
and  you  have  doubtless  told  mother,  Nan's  reasons  for 
refusing  to  disclose  this  man's  identity  at  that  time. 

"Of  course  Nan  did  not  return  to  San  Francisco,  but 
evidently  her  husband  did  and  at  their  apartment  he 
found  this  letter  addressed  to  Nan.  He  opened  it,  and 
immediately  set  out  for  San  Jose  to  call  upon  the 
pawnbroker  and  gain  possession  of  the  marriage  li 
cense.  Unknown  to  him,  however,  his  lines  were  all 
tangled  and  the  pawnbroker  told  him  frankly  he  was  a 
fraud  and  declined  to  give  him  the  license.  Finally 
the  pawnbroker  tried  a  bluff  and  declared  that  if  the 
man  did  not  get  out  of  his  place  of  business  he  would 
have  him  arrested  as  a  bigamist — and  the  fellow  fled. 

"A  month  or  two  later  the  pawnbroker  was  in  San 
Francisco  so  he  called  at  the  Altamont  Apartments  to 
deliver  the  license  in  person,  only  to  discover  that  the 
person  he  sought  had  departed  and  that  her  address 
was  unknown.  So  he  wrote  Nan  again,  using  her  mar 
ried  name  and  addressed  her  at  Port  Agnew,  Wash 
ington.  You  will  remember,  of  course,  that  at  this  time 
Nan's  marriage  was  not  known  to  Port  Agnew,  she  had 
kept  it  secret.  Naturally  the  postmaster  here  did  not 
know  anybody  by  that  name,  and  in  due  course,  when 
the  letter  remained  unclaimed  he  did  not  bother  to 
advertise  it  but  returned  it  to  the  sender." 


372  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

"It  doesn't  seem  possible,"  Mrs.  McKaye  declared, 
quite  pop-eyed  with  excitement. 

"It  was  possible  enough,"  her  son  continued  drily. 
"Well,  the  bewildered  pawnbroker  thrust  the  license 
away  in  his  desk,  and  awaited  the  next  move  of  the  man 
in  the  case.  But  he  never  moved,  and  after  a  while  the 
pawnbroker  forgot  he  had  the  license.  And  the  minis- 
.ter  was  dead.  One  day,  in  cleaning  out  his  desk  he 
came  across  the  accumulated  papers  in  the  case  and  it 
occurred  to  him  to  write  the  state  board  of  health  and 
explain  the  situation.  Promptly  he  received  a  letter 
from  the  board  informing  him  that  inquiries  had  been 
made  at  the  board  of  health  office  for  a  certified  copy 
of  the  license,  by  Miss  Nan  Brent,  of  Port  Agnew, 
Washington,  and  that  the  board  had  been  unable  to 
furnish  such  a  certified  copy.  Immediately  our  oblig 
ing  and  intelligent  pawnbroker,  whose  name,  by  the 
way,  is  Abraham  Goldman,  bundled  up  the  marriage  li 
cense,  together  with  the  carbon  copy  of  the  pawn 
ticket  he  had  given  the  thief ;  a  press  clipping  from  the 
San  Jose  Mercury  recounting  the  story  of  the  capture 
of  the  thief;  carbon  copies  of  all  his  correspondence  in 
the  case,  the  original  of  all  letters  received,  the  photo 
graph  of  the  check — everything,  in  fact,  to  prove  a 
most  conclusive  case  through  the  medium  of  a  well- 
ordered  and  amazing  chain  of  optical  and  circumstan 
tial  evidence.  This  evidence  he  sent  to  Miss  Brent, 
Port  Agnew,  Washington,  and  she  received  it  about 
a  week  before  I  married  her.  Consequently,  she  was 
in  position  to  prove  to  the  most  captious  critic  that  she 
was  a  woman  of  undoubted  virtue,  the  innocent  victim 
of  a  scoundrel  who  had  inveigled  her  into  a  bigamous 
marriage.  Of  course,  in  view  of  the  fact  that  the  man 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  373 

she  went  through  a  legal  marriage  ceremony  with  al 
ready  had  a  wife  living,  Nan's  marriage  to  him  was  il 
legal — how  do  you  express  it?  Ipso  facto  or  per  se? 
In  the  eyes  of  the  law  she  had  never  been  married ;  the 
man  in  the  case  was  legally  debarred  from  contracting 
another  marriage.  The  worst  that  could  possibly  be 
said  of  Nan  was  that  she  played  in  mighty  hard 
luck." 

"In  the  name  of  heaven,  why  did  you  not  tell  me 
this  the  day  you  married  her?"  The  Laird  demanded 
wrathfully. 

"I  didn't  know  it  the  day  I  married  her.  She  was 
curious  enough  to  want  to  see  how  game  I  was.  She 
wanted  to  be  certain  I  truly  loved  her,  I  think — and  in 
view  of  her  former  experience  I  do  not  blame  her  for 
it.  It  pleased  you  a  whole  lot,  didn't  it,  honey?"  he 
added,  turning  to  Nan,  "when  I  married  you  on  faith?" 

"But  why  didn't  you  tell  us  after  you  had  discov 
ered  it,  Donald?"  Mrs.  McKaye  interrupted.  "That 
was  not  kind  of  you,  my  son." 

"Well,"  he  answered  soberly,  "in  the  case  of  you  and 
the  girls  I  didn't  think  you  deserved  it.  I  kept  hoping 
you  and  the  girls  would  confess  to  Dad  that  you  tele 
phoned  Nan  to  come  back  to  Port  Agnew  that  time  I 
was  sick  with  typhoid " 

"Eh?     What's  that?"     The  Laird  sat  up  bristling. 

Mrs.  McKaye  flushed  scarlet  and  seemed  on  the  verge 
of  tears.  Donald  went  to  her  and  took  her  in  his  arms. 
"Awfully  sorry  to  have  to  peach  on  you,  old  dear,"  he 
continued.  "Do  not  think  Nan  told  on  you,  Mother. 
She  didn't.  I  figured  it  all  out  by  myself.  However, 
as  I  started  to  remark,  I  expected  you  would  confess 
and  that  your  confession  would  start  a  family  riot,  in 


374  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

the  midst  of  it  I  knew  father  would  rise  up  and  de 
clare  himself.  I  give  you  my  word,  Dad,  that  for  two 
weeks  before  I  went  to  work  up  at  Darrow  I  watched 
and  waited  all  day  long  for  you  to  come  down  here  and 
tell  Nan  it  was  a  bet  and  that  we'd  play  it  as  it  lay." 

Old  Hector  gritted  his  teeth  and  waged  his  head 
sorrowfully.  "Nellie,"  he  warned  his  trembling  wife, 
"this  is  what  comes  of  a  lack  of  confidence  between  man 
and  wife." 

She  flared  up  at  that.  "Hush,  you  hypocrite.  At 
least  I  haven't  snooped  around  here  trying  to  poison 
dogs  and  kill  people  when  I  was  discovered  playing 
Peeping  Tom.  A  pretty  figure  you've  cut  throughout 
this  entire  affair.  Didn't  I  beg  you  not  to  be  hard  on 
our  poor  boy?" 

"Yes,  you  had  better  lay  low,  Father,"  Donald 
warned  him.  "You've  been  married  long  enough  to 
know  that  if  you  start  anything  with  a  woman  she'll 
put  it  all  over  you.  We  will,  therefore,  forget  Moth 
er's  error  and  concentrate  on  you.  Remember  the 
night  I  dragged  you  ashore  at  Darrow's  log  boom? 
Well,  permit  me  to  tell  you  that  you're  a  pretty  heavy 
tow  and  long  before  my  feet  struck  bottom  I  figured  on 
two  Widows  McKaye.  If  I'd  had  to  swim  twenty  feet 
further  I  would  have  lost  out.  Really,  I  thought  you'd 
come  through  after  that." 

"I  would  if  you'd  waited  a  bit,"  old  Hector  protested 
miserably.  "You  ought  to  know  I  never  do  things  in  a 
hurry." 

"Well,  I  do,  Dad,  but  all  the  same  I  grew  weary  wait 
ing  for  you.  Then  I  made  up  my  mind  I'd  never  tell 
,you  about  Nan  until  you  and  Mother  and  the  girls 
had  completely  reversed  yourselves  and  taken  Nan  for 


KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST  375 

the  woman  she  is  and  not  the  woman  you  once  thought 
she  was." 

"Well,  you've  won,  haven't  you?"  The  Laird's  voice 
was  very  husky. 

"Yes,  I  have ;  and  it's  a  sweet  victory,  I  assure  you." 

"Then  shut  up.     Shut  up,  I  tell  you." 

"All  right!     I'm  through — forever." 

The  Laird  bent  his  beetling  brows  upon  Nan.  "And 
you?"  he  demanded.  "Have  you  finished?" 

She  came  to  him  and  laid  her  soft  cheek  against 
his.  "You  funny  old  man,"  she  whispered.  "Did  you 
ever  hear  that  I  had  begun?" 

"Well,  nae,  I  have  not — now  that  you  mention  it. 
And,  by  the  way,  my  dear!  Referring  to  my  grand 
son's  half-brother?" 

"Yes." 

"I  understand  he's  a  McKaye." 

"Yes,  Donald  has  legally  adopted  him." 

"Well,  then,  I'll  accept  him  as  an  adopted  grand 
son,  my  dear.  I  think  there'll  be  money  enough  for 
everybod}^.  But  about  this  scalawag  of  a  man  that 
fathered  him.  I'll  have  to  know  who  he  is.  We  have  a 
suit  of  zebra  clothing  waiting  for  him,  my  dear." 

"No,  you  haven't,  Father  McKaye.  My  boy's  father 
is  never  going  to  be  a  convict.  That  man  has  other 
children,  too." 

"I'm  going  to  have  a  glass  frame  made  and  in  it  I'm 
going  to  arrange  photographic  reproductions  of  all 
the  documents  in  Nan's  case,"  Donald  stated.  "The 
history  of  the  case  will  all  be  there,  then,  with  the  ex 
ception,  of  course,  of  the  name  of  the  man.  In  defer 
ence  to  Nan's  desires  I  will  omit  that.  Then  I'll  have 
that  case  screwed  into  the  wall  of  the  postoffice  lobby 


376  KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

where  all  Port  Agnew  can  see  and  understand " 

"Nellie,"  The  Laird  interrupted,  "please  stop  fid 
dling  with  that  baby  and  dress  him.  Daughter,  get  UTV 
other  grandson  ready,  and  you,  Donald,  run  over  to 
the  mill  office.  My  car  is  standing  there.  Bring  i 
here  and  we'll  all  go  home  to  The  Dreamerie — y<  -•, 
and  tell  Daney  to  come  up  and  help  me  empty  a  bot"  K 
to — to — to  my  additional  family.  He'll  bring  h  - 
wife,  of  course,  but  then  we  must  endure  the  bitter  with 
the  sweet.  Good  old  file,  Daney.  None  better." 

Donald  put  on  his  cap  and  departed.     As  the  fro 
gate  closed  behind  him  Hector  McKaye  sprang  up  a:  | 
hurried  out  of  the  home  after  him.     "Hey,  there,  son/' 
he  called  into  the  darkness.     "What  was  that  you  said 
about  a  glass  case?" 

Donald  returned  and  repeated  the  statement  of  1 
plan. 

"And  you're  going  to  the  trouble  of  explaining  to 
this  sorry  world,"  the  old  man  cried  sharply.     "Man, 
the  longest  day  she  lives  there'll  be  brutes  that  will 
say  'twas  old  man  McKaye's  money  that  f rimed  an 
alibi  for  her.'      Son,  no  man  or  woman  was   ever   -,, 
pure  that  some  hypocrite  didn't  tread  'em  uirVr  fc;  >: 
like  dust  and  regard  them  as   such.     Lad,  y  ^ir  w 
will  always  be  dust  to  some  folks,  but — we*  • 
to  her — so  what  do  we  care?    We  understand.     Do  :iot 
explain  to  the  damned  Pharisees.     They  wouldn't  W 
derstand.     Hang  that  thing  in  the  postoffice  lobby  a.c. 
some  superior  person  will  quote  Shakespeare,  and  say 
'Methinks  the  lady  doth  protest  too  much.' ' 

"Then  you  would  advise  me  to  tell  the  world  to 
to " 

"Exactly,  sonny,  exactly." 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

-*£<    This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 
*  on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 


Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


AN- 


TH_ 
Wl 


-- 


LD  21A-50m-4,'60 
(A9562slO)476B 


General  Library 

Uoirernty  of  California 

Berkeley 


Str 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


